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THE HUMAN DRIFT 



I 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW VORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 



BY 

JACK LONDON 

/I 

Author of "The Call of the Wild," etc. 



^m lark 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1917 



3 



15 3^^. g 



Copyright, 1906 

By Ess Ess Publishing Company 

Copyright, 1909 

By The Butterick Publishing Company 

Copyright, 1911 

By Mitchell Kenneely and by The Independent 

Copyright, 1912 

By DOITBLEDAY, PAGE AND COMPANY 



Copyright, 1917 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Set up and electrotyped. Published, February, 1917. 



FEB 23 1917 

©CI.A455639 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ONE. The Human Drift 1 

TWO. Nothing that Ever Came to Anything . 27 

THREE. That Dead Men Rise Up Never ... 35 

FOUR. Small-boat Sailing 52 

FIVE. Four Horses and a Sailor 74 

SIX. A Classic of the Sea 101 ' 

A Wicked Woman (Curtain Raiser) , . Ill 

The Birth Mark (SketeH) 155 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 



ONE 

THE HUMAN DRIFT 

" The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd 
Who rose before us, and as Prophets Burn'd, 

Are all but stories, which, awoke from Sleep, 
They told their comrades, and to Sleep retum'd." 

THE history of civilisation is a history of 
, wandering, sword in hand, in search of 

food. In the misty younger world we catch 
glimpses of phantom races, rising, slaying, find- 
i ing food, building rude civilisations, decaying, 
j falling under the swords of stronger hands, 
• and passing utterly away. Man, like any other 
animal, has roved over the earth seeking what 
I he might devour; and not romance and adven- 
1 ture, but the hunger-need, has urged him on his 
: vast adventures. Whether a bankrupt gentleman 
sailing to colonise Virginia or a lean Cantonese 
contracting to labour on the sugar plantations of 
Hawaii, in each case, gentleman and coolie, it is 

1 



2 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

a desperate attempt to get something to eat, to 
get more to eat than he can get at home. 

It has always been so, from the time of the first 
pre-human anthropoid crossing a mountain-divide 
in quest of better berry-bushes beyond, down to 
the latest Slovak, arriving on our shores to-day, 
to go to work in the coal-mines of Pennsylvania. 
These migratory movements of peoples have been 
/called drifts, and the word is apposite. Un- 
planned, blind, automatic, spurred on by the pain 
of hunger, man has literally drifted his way 
around the planet. There have been drifts in the 
past, innumerable and forgotten, and so remote 
that no records have been left, or composed of 
such low-typed humans or pre-humans that they 
made no scratchings on stone or bone and left no 
monuments to show that they had been. These 
early drifts we conjecture and know must have 
occurred, just as we know that the first upright- 
walking brutes were descended from some kin of 
the quadrumana through having developed " a 
pair of great toes out of two opposable thumbs." 
Dominated by fear, and by their very fear ac- 
celerating their development, these early ances- 
tors of ours, suffering hunger-pangs very like, the 
ones we experience to-day, drifted on, hunting 
and being hunted, eating and being eaten, wan- 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 3 

dering through thousand-year-long odysseys of 
screaming primordial savagery, until they left 
their skeletons in glacial gravels, some of them, 
and their bone-scratchings in cavemen's lairs. 

There have been drifts from east to west and 
west to east, from north to south and back again, 
drifts that have criss-crossed one another, and 
drifts colliding and recoiling and caroming off in 
new directions. From Central Europe the Aryans 
have drifted into Asia, and from Central Asia 
the Turanians have drifted across Europe. Asia 
has thrown forth great waves of hungry humans 
from the prehistoric " round-barrow " " broad- 
heads '' who overran Europe and penetrated to 
Scandinavia and England, down through the 
hordes of Attila and Tamerlane, to the present 
immigration of Chinese and Japanese that threat- 
ens America. The Phoenicians and the Greeks, 
with unremembered drifts behind them, colonised 
the Mediterranean. Eome was engulfed in the 
torrent of Germanic tribes drifting down from 
the north before a flood of drifting Asiatics. 
The Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, after having 
drifted whence no man knows, poured into Brit- 
ain, and the English have carried this drift on 
around the world. Retreating before stronger 
breeds, hungry and voracious, the Eskimo has 



4 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

drifted to the inhospitable polar regions, the 
Pigmy to the fever-rotten jungles of Africa. 
And in this day the drift of the races continues, 
whether it be of Chinese into the Philippines and 
the Malay Peninsula, of Europeans to the United 
States or of Americans to the wheat-lands of 
Manitoba and the Northwest. 

Perhaps most amazing has been the South Sea 
Drift. Blind, fortuitous, precarious as no other 
drift has been, nevertheless the islands in that 
waste of ocean have received drift after drift of 
y the races. Down from the mainland of Asia 
poured an Aryan drift that built civilisations in 
Ceylon, Java, and Sumatra. Only the monu- 
ments of these Aryans remain. They them- 
selves have perished utterly, though not until 
after leaving evidences of their drift clear across 
the great South Pacific to far Easter Island. 
And on that drift they encountered races who 
had accomplished the drift before them, and 
they, the Aryans, passed, in turn, before the drift 
of other and subsequent races whom we to-day 
call the Polynesian and the Melanesian. 

Man early discovered death. As soon as his 
evolution permitted, he made himself better de- 
vices for killing than the old natural ones of fang 
and claw. He devoted himself to the invention 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 5 

of killing devices before he discovered fire or 
manufactured for himself religion. And to this 
day, his finest creative energy and technical skill 
are devoted to the same old task of making better 
and ever better killing weapons. All his days, 
down all the past, have been spent in killing. 
And from the fear-stricken, jungle-lurking, cave- 
haunting creature of long ago, he won to empery 
over the whole animal world because he devel- 
oped into the most terrible and awful killer of 
all the animals. He found himself crowded. He 
killed to make room, and as he made room ever 
he increased and found himself crowded, and 
ever he went on killing to make more room. 
Like a settler clearing land of its weeds and for- 
est bushes in order to plant corn, so man was 
compelled to clear all manner of life away in 
order to plant himself. And, sword in hand, he 
has literally hewn his way through the vast 
masses of life that occupied the earth space he 
coveted for himself. And ever he has carried 
the battle wider and wider, until to-day not only 
is he a far more capable killer of men and ani- 
mals than ever before, but he has pressed the 
battle home to the infinite and invisible hosts of 
menacing lives in the world of micro-organ- 
isms. 



6 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

It is true, that they that rose by the sword per- 
ished by the sword. And yet, not only did they 
not all perish, but more rose by the sword than 
perished by it, else man would not to-day be over- 
running the w^orld in such huge swarms. Also, 
it must not be forgotten that they who did not 
rise by the sword did not rise at all. They were 
not. In view of this, there is something wrong 
with Doctor Jordan's war-theory, which is to 
the effect that the best being sent out to war, 
only the second best, the men who are left, re- 
main to breed a second best race, and that, there- 
fore, the human race deteriorates under war. 
If this be so, if we have sent forth the best we 
bred and gone on breeding from the men who 
were left, and since we have done this for ten 
thousand millenniums and are what we splen- 
didly are to-day, then what unthinkably splendid 
and god-like beings must have been our forebears 
those ten thousand millenniums ago. Unfortu- 
nately for Doctor Jordan's theory, those ancient 
forebears cannot live up to this fine reputation. 
We know them for what they w^ere, and before 
the monkey cage of any menagerie we catch truer 
glimpses and hints and resemblances of what 
our ancestors really w^ere long and long ago. 
And by killing, incessant killing, by making a 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 7 

shambles of the planet, those ape-like creatures 
have developed even into you and me. As Henley 
has said in " The Song of the Sword '^ : 

"T/ie Sword Singing — > 

Driving the darkness, 

Even as the banners 

And spears of the Morning; 

Sifting the nations, 

The Slag from the metal. 

The vraste and the weak 

From the fit and the strong ; 

Fighting the brute, 

The abysmal Fecundity ; 

Checking the gross 

Multitudinous blunders, 

The groping, the purblind 

Excesses in service 

Of the Womb universal. 

The absolute drudge." 

As time passed and man increased, he drifted 
over farther afield in search of room. He en- 
countered other drifts of men, and the killing 
of men became prodigious. The weak and the 
decadent fell under the sword. Nations that fal- 
tered, that waxed prosperous in fat valleys and 
rich river deltas, were swept away by the drifts 
of stronger men who were nourished on the hard- 
ships of deserts and mountains and who were 
more capable with the sword. Unknown and un- 
numbered billions of men have been so destroyed 



8 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

in prehistoric times. Draper says that in the 
twenty years of the Gothic war, Italy lost 15,- 
000,000 of her population ; " and that the wars, 
famines, and pestilences of the reign of Jus- 
tinian diminished the human species by the al- 
most incredible number of 100,000,000." Ger- 
many, in the Thirty Years' War, lost 6,000,000 
inhabitants. The record of our own American 
Civil War need scarcely be recalled. 

And man has been destroyed in other ways 
than by the sword. Flood, famine, pestilence 
and murder are potent factors in reducing popu- 
lation — in making room. As Mr. Charles 
Woodruff, in his " Expansion of Eaces," has in- 
stanced : In 188G, when the dikes of the Yellow 
River burst, 7,000,000 people were drowned. 
The failure of crops in Ireland, in 1848, caused 
1,000,000 deaths. The famines in India of 
1896-7 and 1899-1900 lessened the population by 
21,000,000. The T'afping rebellion and the Mo- 
hammedan rebellion, combined with the famine 
of 1877-78, destroyed scores of millions of Chi- 
nese. Europe has been swept repeatedly by great 
plagues. In India, for the period of 1903 to 
1907, the plague deaths averaged between one 
and two millions a year. Mr. Woodruff is re- 
sponsible for the assertion that 10,000,000 per- 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 9 

sons now living in the United States are doomed 
to die of tuberculosis. And in this same country 
ten thousand persons a year are directly mur- 
dered. In China, between three and six millions 
of infants are annually destroyed, while the total 
infanticide record of the whole world is appal- 
ling. In Africa, now, human beings are dying by 
millions of the sleeping sickness. 

More destructive of life than war, is industry 
In all civilised countries great masses of people 
are crowded into slums and labour-ghettos, where 
disease festers, vice corrodes, and famine is 
chronic, and where they die more swiftly and in 
greater numbers than do the soldiers in our mod- 
ern wars. The very infant mortality of a slum 
parish in the East End of London is three times 
that of a middle class parish in the West End. 
In the United States, in the last fourteen years, 
a total of coal-miners, greater than our entire 
standing army, has been killed and injured. 
The United States Bureau of Labour states that 
during the year 1908, there were between 30,000 
and 35,000 deaths of workers by accidents, while 
200,000 more were injured. In fact, the safest 
place for a workingman is in the army. And 
even if that army be at the front, fighting in 
Cuba or South Africa, the soldier in the ranks 



iO THE HUMAN DRIFT 

has a better chance for life than the workingman 
at home. 

And yet, despite this terrible roll of death, de- 
spite the enormous killing of the past and the 
enormous killing of the present, there are to-day 
alive on the planet a billion and three-quarters 
of human beings. Our immediate conclusion is 
that man is exceedingly fecund and very tough. 
Never before have there been so many people in 
the world. In the past centuries the world's 
population has been smaller; in the future cen- 
turies it is destined to be larger. And this brings 
us to that old bugbear that has been so frequently 
laughed away and that still persists in raising 
its grisly head — namely, the doctrine of Mal- 
thus. While man's increasing efficiency of food- 
production, combined with colonisation of whole 
virgin continents, has for generations given the 
apparent lie to Malthus' mathematical statement 
of the Law of Population, nevertheless the essen- 
tial significance of his doctrine remains and 
cannot be challenged. Population does press 
against subsistence. And no matter how rapidly 
subsistence increases, population is certain to 
catch up with it. 

When man was in the hunting stage of de- 
velopment, wide areas were necessary for the 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 11 

maintenance of scant populations. With the 
shepherd stages, the means of subsistence being 
increased, a larger population was supported on 
the same territory. The agricultural stage gave 
support to a still larger population ; and, to-day, 
with the increased food-getting efficiency of a 
machine civilisation, an even larger population 
is made possible. Nor is this theoretical. The 
population is here, a billion and three quarters 
of men, women, and children, and this vast pop- 
ulation is increasing on itself by leaps and 
bounds. 

A heavy European drift to the New World has 
gone on and is going on ; yet Europe, whose pop- 
ulation a century ago was 170,000,000, has to-day 
500,000,000. At this rate of increase, provided 
that subsistence is not overtaken, a century from 
now the population of Europe will be 1,500,000,- 
000. And be it noted of the present rate of in- 
crease in the United States that only one-third is 
due to immigration, while two-thirds is due to 
excess of births over deaths. And at this pres- 
ent rate of increase, the population of the United 
States will be 500,000,000 in less than a century 
from now. 

Man, the hungry one, the killer, has always 
suffered for lack of room. The world has been 



12 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

chronically overcrowded. Belgium with her 572 
persons to the square mile is no more crowded 
than was Denmark when it supported only 500 
paleolithic people. According to Mr. Woodruff, 
cultivated land will produce 1600 times as much 
food as hunting land. From the time of the Nor- 
man Conquest, for centuries Europe could sup- 
port no more than 25 to the square mile. To-day 
Europe supports 81 to the square mile. The ex- 
planation for this is that for the several centuries 
after the Norman Conquest her population was 
saturated. Then, with the development of trad- 
ing and capitalism, of exploration and exploita- 
tion of new lands, and with the invention of la- 
bour-saving machinery and the discovery and 
application of scientific principles, was brought 
about a tremendous increase in Europe's food- 
getting efficiency. And immediately her popula- 
tion sprang up. 

According to the census of Ireland, of 1659, 
that country had a population of 500,000. One 
hundred and fifty years later, her population was 
8,000,000. For many centuries the population of 
Japan was stationary. There seemed no way of 
increasing her food-getting efficiency. Then, 
sixty years ago, came Commodore Perry, knock- 
ing down her doors and letting in the knowledge 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 13 

and machinery of the superior food-getting effici- 
ency of the Western world. Immediately upon 
this rise in subsistence began the rise of popula- 
tion; and it is only the other day that Japan, 
finding her population once again pressing 
against subsistence, embarked, sword in hand, on 
a westward drift in search of more room. And, 
sword in hand, killing and being killed, she has 
carved out for herself Formosa and Korea, and 
driven the vanguard of her drift far into the rich 
interior of Manchuria. 

For an immense period of time China's popu- 
lation has remained at 400,000,000 — the satura- 
tion point. The only reason that the Yellow 
River periodically drowns millions of Chinese is 
that there is no other land for those millions to 
farm. And after every such catastrophe the 
wave of human life rolls up and now millions 
flood out upon that precarious territory. They 
are driven to it, because they are pressed re- 
morselessly against subsistence. It is inevit- 
able that China, sooner or later, like Japan, will 
learn and put into application our own superior 
food-getting efficiency. And when that time 
comes, it is likewise inevitable that her popula- 
tion will increase by unguessed millions until it 
again reaches the saturation point. And then, 



14 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

inoculated with Western ideas, may she not, like 
Japan, take sword in hand and start forth colos- 
sally on a drift of her own for more room. This 
is another reputed bogie — the Yellow Peri] ; 
yet the men of China are only men, like any 
other race of men, and all men, down all his- 
tory, have drifted hungrily, here, there and every- 
where over the planet, seeking for something to 
eat. What other men do, may not the Chinese 
do? 

But a change has long been coming in the 
affairs of man. The more recent drifts of the 
stronger races, carving their way through the les- 
ser breeds to more earth-space, has led to peace, 
ever to wider and more lasting peace. The lesser 
breeds, under penalty of being killed, have been 
compelled to lay down their weapons and cease 
killing among themselves. The scalp-taking In- 
dian and the head-hunting Melanesian have been 
either destroyed or converted to a belief in the 
superior efficacy of civil suits and criminal prose- 
cutions. The planet is being subdued. The 
wild and the hurtful are either tamed or elim- 
inated. From the beasts of prey and the canni- 
bal humans down to the death-dealing microbes, 
no quarter is given; and daily, wider and wider 
areas of hostile territory, whether of a warring 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 15 

desert-tribe in Africa or a pestilential fever-hole 
like Panama, are made peaceable and habitable 
for mankind. As for the great mass of stay-at- 
home folk, what percentage of the present gener- 
ation in the United States, England, or Germany, 
has seen war or knows anything of w^ar at first 
hand? There was never so much peace in the 
world as there is to-day. 

War itself, the old red anarch, is passing. It 
is safer to be a soldier than a workingman. The 
chance for life is greater in an active campaign 
than in a factory or a coal-mine. In the matter 
of killing, war is growing impotent, and this in 
face of the fact that the machinery of war was 
never so expensive in the past nor so dreadful. 
War-equipment to-day, in time of peace, is more 
expensive than of old in time of war. A standing 
army costs more to maintain than it used to cost 
to conquer an empire. It is more expensive to be 
ready to kill, than it used to be to do the killing. 
The price of a Dreadnaught would furnish the 
whole army of Xerxes with killing weapons. 
And, in spite of its magnificent equipment, war 
no longer kills as it used to when its methods 
were simpler. A bombardment by a modern fleet 
has been known to result in the killing of one 
mule. The casualties of a twentieth century war 



16 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

between two world-powers are such as to make a 
worker in an iron-foundry turn green with envy. 
War has become a joke. Men have made for 
themselves monsters of battle which they cannot 
face in battle. Subsistence is generous these 
days, life is not cheap, and it is not in the nature 
of flesh and blood to indulge in the carnage made 
possible by present-day machinery. This is not 
theoretical, as will be shown by a comparison of 
deaths in battle and men involved, in the South 
African War and the Spanish-American War on 
the one hand, and the Civil War or the Napo- 
leonic Wars on the other. 

Not only has war, by its own evolution, ren- 
dered itself futile, but man himself, with greater 
wisdom and higher ethics, is opposed to war. He 
has learned too much. War is repugnant to his 
common sense. He conceives it to be wrong, to 
be absurd, and to be very expensive. For the 
damage wrought and the results accomplished, 
it is not worth the price. Just as in the disputes 
of individuals the arbitration of a civil court in- 
stead of a blood feud is more practical, so, man 
decides, is arbitration more practical in the dis- 
putes of nations. 

War is passing, disease is being conquered, and 
man's food-getting efficiency is increasing. It 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 17 

is because of these factors that there are a bil- 
lion and three quarters of people alive to-day 
instead of a billion, or three-quarter of a billion. 
And it is because of these factors that the world's 
population will very soon be two billions and 
climbing rapidly toward three billions. The life- 
time of the generation is increasing steadily. 
Men live longer these days. Life is not so pre- 
carious. The newborn infant has a greater 
chance for survival than at any time in the past. 
Surgery and sanitation reduce the fatalities that 
accompany the mischances of life and the ravages 
of disease. Men and women, with deficiencies 
and weaknesses that in the past would have ef- 
fected their rapid extinction, live to-day and 
father and mother a numerous progeny. And 
high as the food-getting efficiency may soar, pop- 
ulation is bound to soar after it. The " abysmal 
fecundity " of life has not altered. Given the 
food, and life will increase. A small percentage 
of the billion and three-quarters that live to-day 
may hush the clamour of life to be born, but it 
is only a small percentage. In this particular, 
the life in the man-animal is very like the life 
in the other animals. 

And still another change is coming in human 
affairs. Though politicians gnash their teeth 



18 THE HUMAN DEIFT 

and cry anathema, and man, whose superficial 
book-learning is vitiated by crystallised prejudice, 
assure us that civilisation will go to smash, the 
trend of society, to-day, the world over, is toward 
socialism. The old individualism is passing. 
The state interferes more and more in affairs 
that hitherto have been considered sacredly pri- 
vate. And socialism, when the last word is said, 
is merely a new economic and political system 
whereby more men can get food to eat. In short, 
socialism is an improved food-getting efficiency. 
Furthermore, not only will socialism get food 
more easily and in greater quantity, but it will 
achieve a more equitable distribution of that 
food. Socialism promises, for a time, to give all 
men, women, and children all they want to eat, 
and to enable them to eat all they want as often 
as they want. Subsistence will be pushed back, 
temporarily, an exceedingly long way. In con- 
sequence, the flood of life will rise like a tidal 
wave. There will be more marriages and more 
children born. The enforced sterility that ob- 
tains to-day for many millions, will no longer 
obtain. Nor will the fecund millions in the 
slums and labour-ghettos, who to-day die of all 
the ills due to chronic underfeeding and over- 
crowding, and who die with their fecundity 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 19 

largely unrealised, die in that future day when 
the increased food-getting efficiency of socialism 
will give them all they want to eat. 

It is undeniable that population will increase 
prodigiously — just as it has increased prodigi- 
ously during the last few centuries, following 
upon the increase in food-getting efficiency. The 
magnitude of population in that future day is 
well nigh unthinkable. But there is only so 
much land and water on the surface of the earth. 
Man, despite his marvellous accomplishments, 
will never be able to increase the diameter of the 
planet. The old days of virgin continents will 
be gone. The habitable planet, from ice-cap to 
ice-cap, will be inhabited. And in the matter 
of food-getting, as in everything else, man is only 
finite. Undreamed efficiencies in food-getting 
may be achieved, but, soon or late, man will find 
himself face to face with Malthus' grim law. 
Not only will population catch up with subsist- 
ence, but it will press against subsistence, and 
the pressure will be pitiless and savage. Some- 
where in the future is a date when man will 
face, consciously, the bitter fact that there is not 
food enough for all of him to eat. 

When this day comes, what then? Will there 
be a recrudescence of old obsolete war? In a 



20 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

saturated population life is always cheap, as it 
is cheap in China, in India, to-day. Will new 
human drifts take place, questing for room, carv- 
ing earth-space out of crowded life? Will the 
Sword again sing: 

"Follow, O follow, then. 
Heroes, my harvesters! 
Where the tall grain is ripe 
Thrust in your sickles ! 
Stripped and adust 
In a stubble of empire 
Scything and binding 
The full sheaves of sovranty." 

Even if, as of old, man should wander hungrily, 
sword in hand, slaying and being slain, the relief 
would be only temporary. Even if one race 
alone should hew down the last survivor of all 
the other races, that one race, drifting the world 
around, would saturate the planet with its own 
life and again press against subsistence. And 
in that day, the death rate and the birth rate 
will have to balance. Men will have to die, or 
be prevented from being born. Undoubtedly a 
higher quality of life will obtain, and also a 
slowly decreasing fecundity. But this decrease 
will be so slow that the pressure against subsis- 
tence will remain. The control of progeny will 
be one of the most important problems of man 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 21 

and one of the most important functions of the 
state. Men will simply be not permitted to be 
born. 

Disease, from time to time, will ease the pres- 
sure. Diseases are parasites, and it must not 
be forgotten that just as there are drifts in the 
world of man, so are there drifts in the w^orld 
of micro-organisms — hunger-quests for food. 
Little is known of the micro-organic w^orld, but 
that little is appalling; and no census of it will 
ever be taken, for there is the true, literal " abys- 
mal fecundity.'' Multitudinous as man is, all 
his totality of individuals is as nothing in com- 
parison with the inconceivable vastness of num- 
bers of the micro-organisms. In your body, or 
in mine, right now, are swarming more individ- 
ual entities than there are human beings in the 
w^orld to-day. It is to us an invisible world. 
We only guess its nearest confines. With our 
pow^erful microscopes and ultramicroscopes, en- 
larging diameters twenty thousand times, we 
catch but the slightest glimpses of that profun- 
dity of infinitesimal life. 

Little is known of that world, save in a gen- 
eral way. We know that out of it arise diseases, 
new to us, that afflict and destroy man. We do 
not know whether these diseases are merely the 



22 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

drifts, in a fresh direction, of already-existing 
breeds of micro-organisms, or whether they are 
new, absolutely new, breeds themselves just spon- 
taneously generated. The latter hypothesis is 
tenable, for we theorise that if spontaneous gen- 
eration still occurs on the earth, it is far more 
likely to occur in the form of simple organisms 
than of complicated organisms. 

Another thing we know, and that is that it 
is in crowded populations that new diseases 
arise. They have done so in the past. They do 
so to-day. And no matter how wise are our 
physicians and bacteriologists, no matter how 
successfully they cope with these invaders, new 
invaders continue to arise — new drifts of hun- 
gry life seeking to devour us. And so we are 
justified in believing that in the saturated popu- 
lations of the future, when life is suffocating in 
the pressure against subsistence, that new, and 
ever new, hosts of destroying micro-organisms 
will continue to arise and fling themselves upon 
earth-crowded man to give him room. There 
may even be plagues of unprecedented ferocity 
that will depopulate great areas before the wit 
of man can overcome them. And this we know : 
that no matter how often these invisible hosts 
may be overcome by man's becoming immune 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 23 

to them through a cruel and terrible selection, 
new hosts will ever arise of these micro-organ- 
isms that were in the world before he came and 
that will be here after he is gone. 

After he is gone? Will he then some day be 
gone, and this planet know him no more? Is it 
thence that the human drift in all its totality 
is trending? God Himself is silent on this point, 
though some of his prophets have given us vivid 
representations of that last day when the earth 
shall pass into nothingness. Nor does science, 
despite its radium speculations and its attempted 
analyses of the ultimate nature of matter, give us 
any other word than that man will pass. So far 
as man's knowledge goes, law is universal. 
Elements react under certain unchangeable con- 
ditions. One of these conditions is temperature. 
Whether it be in the test tube of the laboratory 
or the workshop of nature, all organic chemical 
reactions take place only within a restricted 
range of heat. Man, the latest of the ephemera, 
is pitifully a creature of temperature, strutting 
his brief day on the thermometer. Behind him 
is a past wherein it was too warm for him to 
exist. Ahead of him is a future wherein it will 
be too cold for him to exist. He cannot adjust 
himself to that future, because he cannot alter 



24 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

universal law, because he cannot alter his own 
construction nor the molecules that compose him. 
It would be well to ponder these lines of Her- 
bert Spencer's which follow, and which embody, 
possibly, the wildest vision the scientific mind 
has ever achieved: 

" Motion as well as Matter being fixed in quan- 
tity, it would seem that the change in the distri- 
bution of Matter which Motion effects, coming 
to a limit in whichever direction it is carried, 
the indestructible Motion thereupon necessitates 
a reverse distribution. Apparently, the univer- 
sally-co-existent forces of attraction and repul- 
sion, which, as we have seen, necessitates rhythm 
in all minor changes throughout the Universe, 
also necessitates rhythm in the totality of its 
changes — produce now an immeasurable period 
during which the attractive forces predominat- 
ing, cause universal concentration, and then an 
immeasurable period during which the repulsive 
forces predominating, cause universal diffusion 
— alternate eras of Evolution and Dissolution. 
And thus there is suggested the conception of a 
past during ivhich there have been successive 
Evolutions analogous to that which is now going 
on; a future during which successive other EvO' 



THE HUMAN DRIFT 25 

lutions may go on — ever the same in principle 
but never the same in concrete result/^ 

That is it — the most we know — alternate 
eras of evolution and dissolution. In the past 
there have been other evolutions similar to that 
one in which we live, and in the future there may 
be other similar evolutions — that is all. The 
principle of all these evolutions remains, but 
the concrete results are never twice alike. Man 
was not; he was; and again he will not be. In 
eternity which is beyond our comprehension, the 
particular evolution of that solar satellite we call 
the " Earth " occupied but a slight fraction of 
time. And of that fraction of time man occupies 
but a small portion. All the whole human drift 
from the first ape-man to the last savant, is but 
a phantom, a flash of light and a flutter of move 
ment across the infinite face of the starry night 

When the thermometer drops, man ceases — 
with all his lusts and wrestlings and achieve 
ments; with all his race-adventures and race 
tragedies; and with all his red killings, billions 
upon billions of human lives multiplied by as 
many billions more. This is the last word of 
Science, unless there be some further, unguessed 
word which Science will some day find and utter. 
In the meantime it sees no farther than the 



26 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

starry void, where the "' fleeting systems lapse 
like foam." Of what ledger-account is the tiny 
life of man in a vastness where stars snuff out 
like candles and great suns blaze for a time-tick 
of eternity and are gone? 

And for us who live, no worse can happen than 
has happened to the earliest drifts of man, 
marked to-day by ruined cities of forgotten civ- 
ilisation — ruined, cities, which, on excavation, 
are found to rest on ruins of earlier cities, city 
upon city, and fourteen cities, down to a stratum 
where, still earlier, wandering herdsmen drove 
their flocks, and w^here, even preceding them, wild 
hunters chased their prey long after the cave- 
man and the man of the squatting-place cracked 
the knuckle-bones of w^ild animals and vanished 
from the earth. There is nothing terrible about 
it. With Eichard Hovey, when he faced his 
death, we can say : " Behold ! I have lived ! " 
And with another and greater one, we can lay 
ourselves down with a will. The one drop of 
living, the one taste of being, has been good ; and 
perhaps our greatest achievement will be that 
we dreamed immortality, even though we failed 
to realise it. 



TWO 

NOTHING THAT EVER CAME TO ANYTHING 

IT was at Quito, the mountain capital of Ecua- 
dor, that the following passage at correspond- 
ence took place. Having occasion to buy a pair 
of shoes in a shop six feet by eight in size and with 
walls three feet thick, I noticed a mangy leopard 
skin on the floor. I had no Spanish. The shop- 
keeper had no English. But I was an adept at 
sign language. I wanted to know where I should 
go to buy leopard skins. On my scribble-pad 
I drew the interesting streets of a city. Then 
I drew a small shop, which, after much effort, I 
persuaded the proprietor into recognising as his 
shop. Next, I indicated in my drawing that on 
the many streets there were many shops. And, 
finally, I made myself into a living interrogation 
mark, pointing all the while from the mangy 
leopard skin to the many shops I had sketched. 
But the proprietor failed to follow me. So 
did his assistant. The street came in to help — 
that is, as many as could crowd into the six -by- 
eight shop ; while those that could not force their 

27 



28 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

way in held an overflow meeting on the sidewalk. 
The proprietor and the rest took turns at talking 
to me in rapid-fire Spanish, and, from the ex- 
pressions on their faces, all concluded that I 
was remarkably stupid. Again I went through 
my programme, pointing on the sketch from the 
one shop to the many shops, pointing out that in 
this particular shop was one leopard skin, and 
then questing interrogatively with my pencil 
among all the shops. All regarded me in blank 
silence, until I saw comprehension suddenly 
dawn on the face of a small boy. 

a Tigres montanya I " he cried. 

This appealed to me as mountain tigers, 
namely, leopards; and in token that he under- 
stood, the boy made signs for me to follow him, 
which I obeyed. He led me for a quarter of a 
mile, and paused before the doorway of a large 
building where soldiers slouched on sentry duty 
and in and out of which went other soldiers. 
Motioning for me to remain, he ran inside. 

Fifteen minutes later he was out again, with- 
out leopard skins, but full of information. By 
means of my card, of my hotel card, of my watch, 
and of the boy's fingers, I learned the following : 
that at six o'clock that evening he would arrive 



NOTHING CAME TO ANYTHING 29 

at my hotel with ten leopard skins for my 
inspection. Further, I learned that the skins 
were the property of one Captain Ernesto 
Beeucei. Also, I learned that the boy's name 
was Eliceo. 

The boy was prompt. At six o'clock he was 
at my room. In his hand was a small roll ad- 
dressed to me. On opening it I found it to be 
manuscript piano music, the Eora Tranquila 
ValsCy or " Tranquil Hour Waltz," by Ernesto 
Becucci. I came for leopard skins thought I, 
and the owner sends me sheet music instead. 
But the boy assured me that he would have the 
skins at the hotel at nine next morning, and I 
entrusted to him the following letter of acknowl- 
edgment : 

Dear Captain Becucci : 

A thousand thanks for your kind presentation of Eora 
Tranquila Valse. Mrs. London will play it for me this even- 
ing. 

Sincerely yours, 

Jack London. 

Next morning Eliceo was back, but without 
the skins. Instead, he gave me a letter, written 
in Spanish, of which the following is a free trans- 
lation : 



30 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

To my dearest and always appreciated friend, I submit my- 
self— 
Dear sir : 

I sent you last night an offering by the bearer of this note, 
and you returned me a letter which I translated. 

Be it known to you, sir, that I am giving this waltz away 
in the best society, and therefore to your honoured self. 
Therefore it is beholden to you to recognise the attention, 
I mean by a tangible return, as this composition was made 
by myself. You will therefore send by your humble servant, 
the bearer, any offering, however minute, that you may be 
prompted to make. Send it under cover of an envelope. 
The bearer may be trusted. 

I did not indulge in the pleasure of visiting your honour- 
able self this morning, as I find my body not to be enjoying 
the normal exercise of its functions. 

As regards the skins from the mountain, you shall be 
waited on by a small boy at seven o'clock at night with ten 
skins from which you may select those which most satisfy 
your aspirations. 

In the hope that you will look upon this in the same light 
as myself, I beg to be allowed to remain. 
Your most faithful servant, 

Capitan Ebnesto Becucci. 



Well, thought I, this Captain Ernesto Becucci 
has shown himself to be such an undependable 
person, that, while I don't mind rewarding him 
for his composition, I fear me if I do I never 
shall lay eyes on those leopard skins. So to 
Eliceo I gave this letter for the Captain : 



NOTHING CAME TO ANYTHING 31 

My dear Captain Becucci : 

Have the boy bring the skins at seven o'clock this evening, 
when I shall be glad to look at them. This evening when the 
boy brings the skins, I shall be pleased to give him, in an en- 
velope, for you, a tangible return for your musical compo- 
sition. 

Please put the price on each skin, and also let me know 
for what sum all the skins will sell together. 

Sincerely yours, 

Jack London. 

Now, thought I, I have him. No skins, no 
tangible return; and evidently he is set on re- 
ceiving that tangible return. 

At seven o'clock Eliceo was back, but without 
leopard skins. He handed me this letter : 

Senor London : 

I wish to instil in you the belief that I lost to-day, at 
half past three in the afternoon, the key to my cubicle. 
While distributing rations to the soldiers I dropped it. I 
see in this loss the act of God. 

I received a letter from your honourable self, delivered 
by the one who bears you this poor response of mine. To- 
morrow I will burst open the door to permit me to keep my 
word with you. I feel myself eternally shamed not to be 
able to dominate the evils that aflBlct colonial mankind. 
Please send me the trifle that you offered me. Send me 
this proof of your appreciation by the bearer, who is to 
be trusted. Also give to him a small sum of money for 
himself, and earn the undying gratitude of 

Your most faithful servant, 

Capitan Ebnesto Becuoci. 



32 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Also, inclosed in the foregoing letter was the 
following original poem, apropos neither of 
leopard skins nor tangible returns, so far as I 
can make out: 

EFFUSION 

Thou canst not weep; 
Nor ask I for a year 
To rid me of my woes 
Or make my life more dear. 

The mystic chains that bound 
Thy all-fond heart to mine, 
Alas! asundered are 
For now and for all time. 

In vain you strove to hide, 
From vulgar gaze of man, 
The burning glance of love 
That none but Love can scan. 

Go on thy starlit way 
And leave me to my fate ; 
Our souls must needs unite — 
But, God! 'twill be too late. 

To all and sundry of which I replied : 

My dear Captain Becucci: 

I regret exceedingly to hear that by act of God, at half 
past three this afternoon, you lost the key to your cubicle. 
Please have the boy bring the skins at seven o'clock to- 
morrow morning, at which time, when he brings the skins. 



NOTHING CAME TO ANYTHING 33 

I shall be glad to make you that tangible return for your 
" Tranquil Hour Waltz." 

Sincerely yours, 

Jack London. 

At seven o'clock came no skins, but the fol- 
lowing : 

Sir: , 

After offering you my most sincere respects, I beg to con- 
tinue by telling you that no one, up to the time of writing, 
has treated me with such lack of attention. It was a pres- 
ent to gentlemen who were to retain the piece of music, 
and who have all, without exception, made me a present of 
five dollars. It is beyond my humble capacity to believe 
that you, after having offered to send me money in an 
envelope, should fail to do so. 

Send me, I pray of you, the money to remunerate the 
small boy for his repeated visits to you. Please be discreet 
and send it in an envelope by the bearer. 

Last night I came to the hotel with the boy. You were 
dining. I waited more than an hour for you and then went 
to the theatre. Give the boy some small amount, and send 
me a like offering of larger proportions. 

Awaiting incessantly a slight attention on your part. 

Capita N Ernesto Becucci. 

And here, like one of George Moore's realistic 
studies, ends this intercourse with Captain 
Ernesto Becucci. Nothing happened. Nothing 
ever came to anything. He got no tangible re- 
turn, and I got no leopard skins. The tangible 



34 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

return he might have got, I presented to Eliceo, 
who promptly invested it in a pair of trousers 
and a ticket to the bull-fight. 

(Note to Editor. — This is a faithful narration of what 
actually happened in Quito, Ecuador.) 



THEEE 

THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 

THE month in which my seventeenth birth- 
day arrived I signed on before the mast 
on the Sophie Sutherland^ a three-topmast 
schooner bound on a seven-months' seal-hunting 
cruise to the coast of Japan. We sailed from 
San Francisco, and immediately I found con- 
fronting me a problem of no inconsiderable pro- 
portions. There were twelve men of us in the 
forecastle, ten of whom were hardened, tarry- 
thumbed sailors. Not alone was I a youth and 
on my first voyage, but I had for shipmates men 
who had come through the hard school of the 
merchant service of Europe. As boys, they had 
had to perform their ship's duty, and, in addi- 
tion, by immemorial sea custom, they had had to 
be the slaves of the ordinary and able-bodied 
seamen. When they became ordinary seamen 
they were still the slaves of the able-bodied. 
Thus, in the forecastle, with the watch below, an 
able seaman, lying in his bunk, will order an 

35 



36 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

ordinary seaman to fetch him his shoes or bring 
him a drink of water. Now the ordinary sea- 
man may be lying in his bunk. He is just as 
tired as the able seaman. Yet he must get out 
of his bunk and fetch and carry. If he refuses, 
he will be beaten. If, perchance, he is so strong 
that he can whip the able seaman, then all the 
able seamen, or as many as may be necessary, 
pitch upon the luckless devil and administer the 
beating. 

My problem now becomes apparent. These 
hard-bit Scandinavian sailors had come through 
a hard school. As boys they had served their 
mates, and as able seamen they looked to be 
served by other boys. I was a boy — withal with 
a man's body. I had never been to sea before — 
withal I was a good sailor and knew my business. 
It was either a case of holding my own with them 
or of going under. I had signed on as an equal, 
and an equal I must maintain myself, or else 
endure seven months of hell at their hands. And 
it was this very equality they resented. By what 
right was I an equal? I had not earned that 
high privilege. I had not endured the miseries 
they had endured as maltreated boys or bullied 
ordinaries. Worse than that, I was a land-lub- 
ber making his first voyage. And yet, by the in- 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 37 

justice of fate, on the ship's articles I was their 
equal. 

My method was deliberate, and simple, and 
drastic. In the first place, I resolved to do mj 
work, no matter how hard or dangerous it might 
be, so well that no man would be called upon to 
do it for me. Further, I put ginger in my 
muscles. I never malingered when pulling on a 
rope, for I knew the eagle eyes of my forecastle 
mates were squinting for just such evidences of 
my inferiority. I made it a point to be among 
the first of the watch going on deck, among the 
last going below, never leaving a sheet or tackle 
for some one else to coil over a pin. I was al- 
ways eager for the run aloft for the shifting of 
topsail sheets and tacks, or for the setting or tak- 
ing in of topsails ; and in these matters I did more 
than my share. 

Furthermore, I was on a hair-trigger of re- 
sentment myself. I knew better than to accept 
any abuse or the slightest patronizing. At the 
first hint of such, I went off — I exploded. I 
might be beaten in the subsequent fight, but I left 
the impression that I was a wild-cat and that I 
would just as willingly fight again. My inten- 
tion was to demonstrate that I would tolerate no 
imposition. I proved that the man who im- 



38 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

posed on me must have a figlit on his hands. 
And, doing my work well, the innate justice of 
the men, assisted by their wholesome dislike for 
a clawing and rending wild-cat ruction, soon led 
them to give over their hectoring. After a bit of 
strife, my attitude was accepted, and it was my 
pride that I was taken in as an equal in spirit as 
well as in fact. From then on, everything was 
beautiful, and the voyage promised to be a happy 
one. 

But there was one other man in the forecastle. 
Counting the Scandinavians as ten, and myself 
as the eleventh, this man was the twelfth and 
last. We never knew his name, contenting our- 
selves with calling him the " Bricklayer.'' He 
was from Missouri — at least he so informed us 
in the one meagre confidence he was guilty of in 
the early days of the voyage. Also, at that time, 
we learned several other things. He was a brick- 
layer by trade. He had never even seen salt 
water until the week before he joined us, at which 
time he had arrived in San Francisco and looked 
upon San Francisco Bay. Why he, of all men, 
at forty years of age, should have felt the prod 
to go to sea, was beyond all of us ; for it was our 
unanimous conviction that no man less fitted 
for the sea had ever embarked on it. But to sea 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 39 

he had come. After a week's stay in a sailors' 
boarding-house, he had been shoved aboard of 
us as an able seaman. 

All hands had to do his work for him. Not 
only did he know nothing, but he proved himself 
unable to learn anything. Try as they would, 
they could never teach him to steer. To him the 
compass must have been a profound and awful 
whirligig. He never mastered its cardinal 
points, much less the checking and steadying of 
the ship on her course. He never did come to 
know whether ropes should be coiled from left to 
right or from right to left. It was mentally im- 
possible for him to learn the easy muscular trick 
of throwing his weight on a rope in pulling and 
hauling. The simplest knots and turns were be- 
yond his comprehension, while he was mortally 
afraid of going aloft. Bullied by captain and 
mate, he was one day forced aloft. He managed 
to get underneath the crosstrees, and there he 
froze to the ratlines. Two sailors had to go after 
him to help him down. 

All of which was bad enough had there been 
no worse. But he was vicious, malignant, dirty, 
and without common decency. He was a tall, 
powerful man, and he fought with everybody. 
And there was no fairness in his fighting. His 



40 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

first fight on board, the first day out, was with 
me, when he, desiring to cut a plug of chewing 
tobacco, took my personal table-knife for the 
purpose, and whereupon, I, on a hair-trigger, 
promptly exploded. After that he fought with 
nearly every member of the crew. When his 
clothing became too filthy to be bearable by the 
rest of us, we put it to soak and stood over him 
while he washed it. In short, the Bricklayer was 
one of those horrible and monstrous things that 
one must see in order to be convinced that they 
exist. 

I will only say that he was a beast, and that 
we treated him like a beast. It is only by look- 
ing back through the years that I realise how 
heartless we were to him. He was without sin. 
He could not, by the very nature of things, have 
been anything else than he was. He had not 
made himself, and for his making he w^as not 
responsible. Yet we treated him as a free agent 
and held him personally responsible for all that 
he was and that he should not have been. As a 
result, our treatment of him was as terrible as 
he was himself terrible. Finally we gave him 
the silent treatment, and for weeks before he 
died w^e neither spoke to him nor did he speak 
to us. And for weeks he moved among us, or 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 41 

lay in his bunk in our crowded house, grinning 
at us his hatred and malignancy. He was a dy- 
ing man, and he knew it, and we knew it. And 
furthermore, he knew that we wanted him to die. 
He cumbered our life with his presence, and ours 
was a rough life that made rough men of us. 
And so he died, in a small space crowded by 
twelve men and as much alone as if he had died 
on some desolate mountain peak. No kindly 
word, no last w^ord, was passed between. He 
died as he had lived, a beast, and he died hating 
us and hated by us. 

And now I come to the most startling moment 
of my life. No sooner was he dead than he was 
flung overboard. He died in a night of wind, 
drawing his last breath as the men tumbled into 
their oilskins to the cry of " All hands ! '' And 
he was flung overboard, several hours later, on a 
day of wind. Not even a canvas wrapping 
graced his mortal remains; nor was he deemed 
worthy of bars of iron at his feet. We sewed 
him up in the blankets in which he died and laid 
him on a hatch-cover for'ard of the main-hatch 
on the port side. A gunnysack, half -full of gal- 
ley coal, was fastened to his feet. 

It w^as bitter cold. The weather-side of every 
rope, spar, and stay was coated with ice, while 



42 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

all the rigging was a harp, singing and shouting 
under the fierce hand of the wind. The schooner, 
hove to, lurched and floundered through the sea, 
rolling her scuppers under and perpetually flood- 
ing the deck with icy salt water. We of the 
forecastle stood in sea-boots and oilskins. Our 
hands were mittened, but our heads were bared 
in the presence of the death we did not respect. 
Our ears stung and numbed and whitened, and 
we yearned for the body to be gone. But the 
interminable reading of the burial service went 
on. The captain had mistaken his place, and 
while he read on without purpose we froze our 
ears and resented this final hardship thrust upon 
us by the helpless cadaver. As from the begin- 
ning, so to the end, everything had gone wrong 
with the Bricklayer. Finally, the captain's son, 
irritated beyond measure, jerked the book from 
the palsied fingers of the old man and found the 
place. Again the quavering voice of the captain 
arose. Then came the cue : " And the body 
shall be cast into the sea.'' We elevated one 
end of the hatch-cover, and the Bricklayer 
plunged outboard and was gone. 

Back into the forecastle we cleaned house, 
washing out the dead man's bunk and remov- 
ing every vestige of him. By sea law and sea 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 43 

custom, we should have gathered his effects to- 
gether and turned them over to the captain, who, 
later, would have held an auction in which we 
should have bid for the various articles. But no 
man wanted them, so we tossed them up on deck 
and overboard in the wake of the departed body 
— the last ill-treatment we could devise to wreak 
upon the one we had hated so. Oh, it was raw," 
believe me; but the life we lived was raw, and 
we were as raw as the life. 

The Bricklayer's bunk was better than mine. 
Less sea water leaked down through the deck 
into it, and the light was better for lying in bed 
and reading. Partly for this reason I proceeded 
to move into his bunk. My other reason was 
pride. I saw the sailors were superstitious, and 
by this act I determined to show that I was 
braver than they. I would cap my proved equal- 
ity by a deed that would compel their recogni- 
tion of my superiority. Oh, the arrogance of 
youth! But let that pass. The sailors were 
appalled by my intention. One and all, they 
warned me that in the history of the sea no man 
had taken a dead man's bunk and lived to the end 
of the voyage. They instanced case after case 
in their personal experience. I was obdurate. 
Then they begged and pleaded with me, and my 



44 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

pride was tickled in that they showed they really 
liked me and were concerned about me. This 
but served to confirm me in my madness. I 
moved in, and, lying in the dead man's bunk, all 
afternoon and evening listened to dire prophe- 
cies of my future. Also were told stories of aw- 
ful deaths and grewsome ghosts that secretly 
shivered the hearts of all of us. Saturated with 
this, yet scoffing at it, I rolled over at the end of 
the second dog-watch and went to sleep. 

At ten minutes to twelve I was called, and at 
twelve I was dressed and on deck, relieving the 
man who had called me. On the sealing grounds, 
when hove to, a w^atch of only a single man is 
kept through the night, each man holding the 
deck for an hour. It was a dark night, though 
not a black one. The gale was breaking up, and 
the clouds were thinning. There should have 
been a moon, and, though invisible, in some way a 
dim, suffused radiance came from it. I paced 
back and forth across the deck amidships. My 
mind was filled with the event of the day and 
with the horrible tales my shipmates had told, 
and yet I dare to say, here and now, that I was 
not afraid. I was a healthy animal, and further- 
more, intellectually, I agreed with Swinburne 
that dead men rise up never. The Bricklayer 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 45 

was dead, and that was the end of it. He would 
rise up never — at least, never on the deck of the 
Sophie Sutherland. Even then he w^as in the 
ocean depths miles to windward of our leeward 
drift, and the likelihood was that he was already 
portioned out in the maws of many sharks. Still, 
my mind pondered on the tales of the ghosts 
of dead men I had heard, and I speculated on 
the spirit world. My conclusion was that if the 
spirits of the dead still roamed the world they 
carried the goodness or the malignancy of the 
earth-life with them. Therefore, granting the 
hypothesis (which I didn't grant at all) , the ghost 
of the Bricklayer was bound to be as hateful and 
malignant as he in life had been. But there 
wasn't any Bricklayer's ghost — that I insisted 
upon. 

A few minutes, thinking thus, I paced up and 
down. Then, glancing casually for'ard, along the 
port side, I leaped like a startled deer and in a 
blind madness of terror rushed aft along the 
poop, heading for the cabin. Gone was all my 
arrogance of youth and my intellectual calm. I 
had seen a ghost. There, in the dim light, where 
we had flung the dead man overboard, I had 
seen a faint and wavering form. Six feet in 
length it was, slender, and of substance so at- 



46 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

tenuated that I had distinctly seen through it the 
tracery of the fore-rigging. 

As for me, I was as panic-stricken as a fright- 
ened horse. I, as I, had ceased to exist. 
Through me were vibrating the fibre-instincts of 
ten thousand generations of superstitious fore- 
bears who had been afraid of the dark and the 
things of the dark. I was not I. I was, in truth, 
those ten thousand forebears. I was the race, 
the whole human race, in its superstitious in- 
fancy. Not until part way down the cabin-com- 
panionway did my identity return to me. I 
checked my flight and clung to the steep ladder, 
suffocating, trembling, and dizzy. Never, before 
nor since, have I had such a shock. I clung to 
the ladder and considered. I could not doubt my 
senses. That I had seen something there was 
no discussion. But what was it? Either a ghost 
or a joke. There could be nothing else. If a 
ghost, the question was: would it appear again? 
If it did not, and I aroused the ship's officers, I 
would make myself the laughing stock of all on 
board. And by the same token, if it were a joke, 
my position would be still more ridiculous. If 
I were to retain my hard-won place of equality, it 
would never do to arouse any one until I ascer- 
tained the nature of the thing. 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 47 

I am a brave man. I dare to say so ; for in fear 
and trembling I crept up the companionway and 
went back to the spot from which I had first seen 
the thing. It had vanished. My bravery was 
qualified, however. Though I could see nothing, 
I w^as afraid to go forard to the spot where I 
had seen the thing. I resumed my pacing up and 
down, and though I cast many an anxious glance 
toward the dread spot, nothing manifested itself. 
As my equanimity returned to me, I concluded 
that the whole affair had been a trick of the 
imagination and that I had got what I deserved 
for allowing my mind to dwell on such mat- 
ters. 

Once more my glances for'ard were casual, and 
not anxious; and then, suddenly, I was a mad- 
man, rushing wildly aft. I had seen the thing 
again, the long, wavering attenuated substance 
through which could be seen the fore-rigging. 
This time I had reached only the break of the 
poop when I checked myself. Again I reasoned 
over the situation, and it was pride that 
counselled strongest. I could not afford to make 
myself a laughing stock. This thing, whatever 
it was, I must face alone. I must work it out 
myself. I looked back to the spot where we had 
tilted the Bricklayer. It was vacant. Nothing 



48 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

moved. And for a third time I resumed my amid- 
ships pacing. 

In the absence of the thing my fear died away 
and my intellectual poise returned. Of course 
it was not a ghost. Dead men did not rise up. 
It was a joke, a cruel joke. My mates of the 
forecastle, by some unknown means, were fright- 
ening me. Twice already must they have seen me 
run aft. My cheeks burned wdth shame. In 
fancy I could hear the smothered chuckling and 
laughter even then going on in the forecastle. 
I began to grow angry. Jokes were all very well, 
but this was carrying the thing too far. I was 
the youngest on board, only a youth, and they 
had no right to play tricks on me of the order that 
I well knew in the past had made raving maniacs 
of men and women. I grew angrier and angrier, 
and resolved to show them that I was made of 
sterner stuff and at the same time to wreak my 
resentment upon them. If the thing appeared 
again, I made my mind up that I would go up to 
it — furthermore, that I would go up to it knife 
in hand. When within striking distance, I 
would strike. If a man, he would get the knife- 
thrust he deserved. If a ghost, well, it wouldn't 
hurt the ghost any, while I would have learned 
that dead men did rise up. 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 49 

Now I was very angry, and I was quite sure 
the thing was a trick; but when the thing ap- 
peared a third time, in the same spot, long, at- 
tenuated, and wavering, fear surged up in me 
and drove most of my anger away. But I did 
not run. Nor did I take my eyes from the thing. 
Both times before, it had vanished while I was 
running away, so I had not seen the manner of 
its going. I drew my sheath-knife from my belt 
and began my advance. Step by step, nearer and 
nearer, the effort to control myself grew more 
severe. The struggle was between my will, my 
identity, my very self, on the one hand, and on 
the other, the ten thousand ancestors who were 
twisted into the fibres of me and whose ghostly 
voices were whispering of the dark and the fear 
of the dark that had been theirs in the time when 
the world was dark and full of terror. 

I advanced more slowly, and still the thing 
wavered and flitted with strange eerie lurches. 
And then, right before my eyes, it vanished. I 
saw it vanish. Neither to the right nor left did 
it go, nor backward. Right there, while I gazed 
upon it, it faded away, ceased to be. I didn't die, 
but I swear, from what I experienced in those few 
succeeding moments, that I know full well that 
men can die of fright. I stood there, knife in 



50 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

hand, swaying automatically to the roll of the 
ship, paralysed with fear. Had the Bricklayer 
suddenly seized my throat with corporeal fingers 
and proceeded to throttle me, it would have been 
no more than I expected. Dead men did rise up, 
and that would be the most likely thing the 
malignant Bricklayer would do. 

But he didn't seize my throat. Nothing hap- 
pened. And, since nature abhors a status, I 
could not remain there in the one place forever 
paralysed. I turned and started aft. I did not 
run. What was the use? What chance had I 
against the malevolent world of ghosts? Flight, 
with me, was the swiftness of my legs. But pur- 
suit, with a ghost, was the swiftness of thought. 
And there were ghosts. I had seen one. 

And so, stumbling slowly aft, I discovered the 
explanation of the seeming. I saw the mizzen 
topmast lurching across a faint radiance of cloud 
behind which was the moon. The idea leaped in 
my brain. I extended the line between the 
cloudy radiance and the mizzen-topmast and 
found that it must strike somewhere near the 
fore-rigging on the port side. Even as I did this, 
the radiance vanished. The driving clouds of the 
breaking gale were alternately thickening and 
thinninsr before the face of the moon but never 



THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER 51 

exposing the face of the moon. And when the 
clouds were at their thinnest, it was a very dim 
radiance that the moon was able to make. I 
watched and waited. The next time the clouds 
thinned I looked for'ard, and there was the 
shadow of the topmast, long and attenuated, wav- 
ering and lurching on the deck and against the 
rigging. 

This was mj first ghost. Once again have I 
seen a ghost. It proved to be a Newfoundland 
dog, and I don't know which of us was the more 
frightened, for I hit that Newfoundland a full 
right-arm swing to the jaw. Regarding the 
Bricklayer's ghost, I will say that I never men- 
tioned it to a soul on board. Also, I will say 
that in all my life I never went through more 
torment and mental suffering than on that lonely 
night-watch on the Sophie Sutherland. 

(To THE Editor. — This is not a fiction. It is a true page 
out of my life.) 



FOUR 

SMALL-BOAT SAILING 

A SAILOR is born, not made. And by 
'' sailor '' is meant, not the average efficient 
and hopeless creature who is found to-day in the 
forecastle of deepwater ships, but the man who 
will take a fabric compounded of wood and iron 
and rope and canvas and compel it to obey his 
will on the surface of the sea. Barring captains 
and mates of big ships, the small-boat sailor is 
the real sailor. He knows — he must know — 
how to make the wind carry his craft from one 
given point to another given point. He must 
know about tides and rips and eddies, bar and 
channel markings, and day and night signals ; he 
must be wise in weather-lore ; and he must be sym- 
pathetically familiar with the peculiar qualities 
of his boat which differentiate it from every other 
boat that was ever built and rigged. He must 
know how to gentle her about, as one instance 
of a myriad, and to fill her on the other tack 
without deadening her way or allowing her to 
fall off too far. 

52 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 53 

The deepwater sailor of to-day needs know 
none of these things. And he doesn't. He pulls 
and hauls as he is ordered, swabs decks, washes 
paint, and chips iron-rust. He knows nothing, 
and cares less. Put him in a small boat and he 
is helpless. He will cut an even better figure on 
the hurricane deck of a horse. 

I shall never forget my child-astonishment 
when I first encountered one of these strange be- 
ings. He was a runaway English sailor. I was 
a lad of twelve, with a decked-over, fourteen-foot, 
centre-board skiff which I had taught myself to 
sail. I sat at his feet as at the feet of a god, 
while he discoursed of strange lands and peoples, 
deeds of violence, and hair-raising gales at sea. 
Then, one day, I took him for a sail. With all 
the trepidation of the veriest little amateur, I 
hoisted sail and got under way. Here was a 
man, looking on critically, I was sure, who knew 
more in one second about boats and the water 
than I could ever know. After an interval, in 
which I exceeded myself, he took the tiller and 
the sheet. I sat on the little thwart amidships, 
open-mouthed, prepared to learn what real sail- 
ing was. My mouth remained open, for I learned 
what a real sailor was in a small boat. He 
couldn't trim the sheet to save himself, he nearly 



54 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

capsized several times in squalls, and, once again, 
bj blunderingly jibing over; he didn't know what 
a centre-board was for, nor did he know that in 
running a boat before the wind one must sit 
in the middle instead of on the side ; and finally, 
when we came back to the wharf, he ran the skiff 
in full tilt, shattering her nose and carrying away 
the mast-step. And yet he was a really truly 
sailor fresh from the vasty deep. 

Which points my moral. A man can sail in the 
forecastles of big ships all his life and never 
know what real sailing is. From the time I was 
twelve, I listened to the lure of the sea. When I 
was fifteen I w as captain and owner of an oyster- 
pirate sloop. By the time I was sixteen I was 
sailing in scow^-schooners, fishing salmon with 
the Greeks up the Sacramento River, and serving 
as sailor on the Fish Patrol. And I was a good 
sailor, too, though all my cruising had been on 
San Francisco Bay and the rivers tributary to 
it. I had never been on the ocean in my life. 

Then, the month I was seventeen, I signed be- 
fore the mast as an able seaman on a three-top- 
mast schooner bound on a seven-months' cruise 
across the Pacific and back again. As my ship- 
mates promptly informed me, I had had my 
nerve with me to sign on as able seaman. Yet 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 55 

behold, I was an able seaman. I had graduated 
from the right school. It took no more than 
minutes to learn the names and uses of the few 
new ropes. It was simple. I did not do things 
blindly. As a small-boat sailor I had learned to 
reason out and know the why of everything. It 
is true, I had to learn how to steer by compass, 
which took maybe half a minute; but when it 
came to steering " full-and-by " and " close-and- 
by," I could beat the average of my shipmates^ 
because that was the very way I had always 
sailed. Inside fifteen minutes I could box the 
compass around and back again. And there was 
little else to learn during that seven-months' 
cruise, except fancy rope-sailorising, such as the 
more complicated lanyard knots and the making 
of various kinds of sennit and rope-mats. The 
point of all of which is that it is by means of 
small-boat sailing that the real sailor is best 
schooled. 

And if a man is a born sailor, and has gone to 
the school of the sea, never in all his life can he 
get away from the sea again. The salt of it is in 
his bones as well as his nostrils, and the sea will 
call to him until he dies. Of late years, I have 
found easier wa^^s of earning a living. I have 
quit the forecastle for keeps, but always I come 



56 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

back to the sea. In my case it is usually San 
Francisco Bay, than which no lustier, tougher, 
sheet of water can be found for small-boat sail- 
ing. 

It really blows on San Francisco Bay. Dur- 
ing the winter, which is the best cruising season, 
we have southeasters, southwesters, and occa- 
sional howling northers. Throughout the sum- 
mer we have what we call the " sea-breeze," an 
unfailing wind off the Pacific that on most after- 
noons in the week blows what the Atlantic Coast 
yachtsmen would name a gale. They are always 
surprised by the small spread of canvas our 
yachts carry. Some of them, with schooners 
they have sailed around the Horn, have looked 
proudly at their own lofty sticks and huge 
spreads, then patronisingly and even pityingly 
at ours. Then, perchance, they have joined in a 
club cruise from San Francisco to Mare Island. 
They found the morning run up the Bay delight- 
ful. In the afternoon, when the brave west wind 
ramped across San Pablo Bay and they faced it 
on the long beat home, things were somewhat 
different. One by one, like a flight of swallows, 
our more meagrely sparred and canvassed yachts 
went by, leaving them wallowing and dead and 
shortening down in what they called a gale but 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 57 

which we called a dandy sailing breeze. The 
next time they came out, we would notice their 
sticks cut down, their booms shortened, and their 
after-leeches nearer the luffs by whole cloths. 

As for excitement, there is all the difference in 
the world between a ship in trouble at sea, and a 
small boat in trouble on land-locked water. Yet 
for genuine excitement and thrill, give me the 
small boat. Things happen so quickly, and there 
are always so few to do the work — and hard 
work, too, as the small-boat sailor knows. I have 
toiled all night, both watches on deck, in a 
typhoon off the coast of Japan, and been less 
exhausted than by two hours' w^ork at reefing 
down a thirty-foot sloop and heaving up two 
anchors on a lee shore in a screaming south- 
easter. 

Hard work and excitement? Let the wind 
baffle and drop in a heavy tide-way just as you are 
sailing your little sloop through a narrow draw- 
bridge. Behold your sails, upon which you are 
depending, flap with sudden emptiness, and then 
see the impish wind, with a haul of eight points, 
fill your jib aback with a gusty puff. Around 
she goes, and sweeps, not through the open draw, 
but broadside on against the solid piles. Hear 
the roar of the tide, sucking through the trestle. 



58 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

And hear and see your pretty, fresh-painted boat 
crash against the piles. Feel her stout little hull 
give to the impact. See the rail actually pinch 
in. Hear your canvas tearing, and see the black, 
square-ended timbers thrusting holes through it. 
Smash ! There goes your topmast stay, and the 
topmast reels over drunkenly above you. There 
is a ripping and crunching. If it continues, your 
starboard shrouds will be torn out. Grab a rope 
— any rope — and take a turn around a pile. 
But the free end of the rope is too short. You 
can't make it fast, and you hold on and wildly 
yell for your one companion to get a turn with 
another and longer rope. Hold on! You hold 
on till you are purple in the face, till it seems 
your arms are dragging out of their sockets, till 
the blood bursts from the ends of your fingers. 
But you hold, and your partner gets the longer 
rope and makes it fast. You straighten up and 
look at your hands. They are ruined. You can 
scarcely relax the crooks of the fingers. The 
pain is sickening. But there is no time. The 
skiff, which is always perverse, is pounding 
against the barnacles on the piles which threaten 
to scrape its gunwale off. It's drop the peak! 
Down jib! Then you run lines, and pull and 
haul and heave, and exchange unpleasant re- 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 59 

marks with the bridge-tender who is always will- 
ing to meet you more than half way in such 
repartee. And finally, at the end of an hour, 
with aching back, sweat-soaked shirt, and 
slaughtered hands, you are through and swinging 
along on the placid, beneficent tide between nar- 
row banks where the cattle stand knee-deep and 
gaze wonderingly at you. Excitement! Work! 
Can you beat it in a calm day on the deep sea? 

I've tried it both w^ays. I remember labouring 
in a fourteen days' gale off the coast of New 
Zealand. We were a tramp collier, rusty and 
battered, with six thousand tons of coal in our 
hold. Life lines were stretched fore and aft; 
and on our weather side, attached to smokestack 
guys and rigging, were huge rope-nettings, hung 
there for the purpose of breaking the force of 
the seas and so saving our mess-room doors. 
But the doors were smashed and the mess-rooms 
washed out just the same. And yet, out of it all, 
arose but the one feeling, namely, of monotony. 

In contrast with the foregoing, about the live- 
liest eight days of my life were spent in a small 
boat on the west coast of Korea. Never mind 
why I was thus voyaging up the Yellow Sea dur- 
ing the month of February in below-zero weather. 
The point is that I was in an open boat, a sampan^ 



60 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

on a rocky coast where there were no light-houses 
and where the tides ran from thirty to sixty feet. 
My crew was Japanese fishermen. We did not 
speak each other's language. Yet there was 
nothing monotonous about that trip. Never 
shall I forget one particular cold bitter dawn, 
when, in the thick of driving snow, we took in 
sail and dropped our small anchor. The wind 
was howling out of the northwest, and we were 
on a lee shore. Ahead and astern, all escape was 
cut off by rocky headlands, against whose bases 
burst the unbroken seas. To windward a short 
distance, seen only between the snow-squalls, was 
a low rocky reef. It was this that inadequately 
protected us from the whole Yellow Sea that 
thundered in upon us. 

The Japanese crawled under a communal rice 
mat and went to sleep. I joined them, and for 
several hours we dozed fitfully. Then a sea de- 
luged us out with icy water, and we found several 
inches of snow on top the mat. The reef to wind- 
ward was disappearing under the rising tide, and 
moment by moment the seas broke more strongly 
over the rocks. The fishermen studied the shore 
anxiously. So did I, and with a sailor's eye, 
though I could see little chance for a swimmer to 
gain that surf-hammered line of rocks. I made 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 61 

signs toward the headlands on either flank. The 
Japanese shook their heads. I indicated that 
dreadful lee shore. Still they shook their heads 
and did nothing. My conclusion was that they 
were paralysed by the hopelessness of the situa- 
tion. Yet our extremity increased with every 
minute, for the rising tide was robbing us of the 
reef that served as buffer. It soon became a case 
of swamping at our anchor. Seas were splash- 
ing on board in growing volume, and we baled 
constantly. And still my fishermen crew eyed 
the surf-battered shore and did nothing. 

At last, after many narrow escapes from com- 
plete swamping, the fishermen got into action. 
All hands tailed on to the anchor and hove it 
up. For'ard, as the boat's head paid off, we set 
a patch of sail about the size of a flour-sack. 
And we headed straight for shore. I unlaced 
my shoes, unbuttoned my great-coat and coat, 
and was ready to make a quick partial strip a 
minute or so before w^e struck. But we didn't 
strike, and, as we rushed in, I saw the beauty of 
the situation. Before us opened a narrow chan- 
nel, frilled at its mouth with breaking seas. Yet, 
long before, w hen I had scanned the shore closely, 
there had been no such channel. / had forgotten 
the thirty-foot tide. And it was for this tide 



62 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

that the Japanese had so precariously waited. 
We ran the frill of breakers, curved into a tiny 
sheltered bay where the water was scarcely flawed 
by the gale, and landed on a beach where the 
salt sea of the last tide lay frozen in long curv- 
ing lines. And this was one gale of three in the 
course of those eight days in the sampan. Would 
it have been beaten on a ship? I fear me the 
ship would have gone aground on the outlying 
reef and that its people would have been incon- 
tinently and monotonously drowned. 

There are enough surprises and mishaps in a 
three-days' cruise in a small boat to supply a 
great ship on the ocean for a full year. I remem- 
ber, once, taking out on her trial trip a little 
thirty-footer I had just bought. In six days we 
had two stiff blows, and, in addition, one proper 
southwester and one ripsnorting southeaster. 
The slight intervals between these blows were 
dead calms. Also, in the six days, we were 
aground three times. Then, too, we tied up to 
the bank in the Sacramento River, and, grounding 
by an accident on the steep slope on a falling tide, 
nearly turned a side somersault down the bank. 
In a stark calm and a heavy tide in the Carquinez 
Straits, where anchors skate on the channel- 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 63 

scoured bottom, we were sucked against a big 
dock and smashed and bumped down a quarter 
of a mile of its length before we could get clear. 
Two hours afterward, on San Pablo Bay, the 
wind was piping up and we were reefing down. 
It is no fun to pick up a skiff adrift in a heavy 
sea and gale. That was our next task, for our 
skiff, swamping, parted both towing painters we 
had bent on. Before we recovered it we had 
nearly killed ourselves with exhaustion, and we 
certainly had strained the sloop in every part 
from keelson to truck. And to cap it all, coming 
into our home port, beating up the narrowest 
part of the San Antonio Estuary, we had a shave 
of inches from collision with a big ship in tow 
of a tug. I have sailed the ocean in far larger 
craft a year at a time, in which period occurred 
no such chapter of moving incident. 

After all, the mishaps are almost the best part 
of small-boat sailing. Looking back, they prove 
to be punctuations of joy. At the time they try 
your mettle and your vocabulary, and may make 
you so pessimistic as to believe that God has a 
grudge against you — but afterward, ah, after- 
ward, with what pleasure you remember them 
and with what gusto do you relate them to your 



64 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

brother skippers in the fellowhood of small-boat 
sailing. 

A narrow, winding slough ; a half tide, expos- 
ing mud surfaced with gangrenous slime; the 
water itself filthy and discoloured by the waste 
from the vats of a near-by tannery; the marsh 
grass on either side mottled with all the shades of 
a decaying orchid ; a crazy, ramshackled, ancient 
wharf; and at the end of the wharf a small, white- 
painted sloop. Nothing romantic about it. No 
hint of adventure. A splendid pictorial argu- 
ment against the alleged joys of small-boat sail- 
ing. Possibly that is what Cloudesley and I 
thought, that sombre, leaden morning as we 
turned out to cook breakfast and wash decks. 
The latter was my stunt, but one look at the 
dirty water overside and another at my fresh- 
painted deck, deterred me. After breakfast, we 
started a game of chess. The tide continued to 
fall, and we felt the sloop begin to list. We 
played on until the chess men began to fall over. 
The list increased, and we went on deck. Bow- 
line and stern-line were drawn taut. As we 
looked the boat listed still farther with an abrupt 
jerk. The lines were now very taut. 

" As soon as her belly touches the bottom she 
will stop," I said. 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 65 

Cloudeslej sounded with a boat hook along the 
outside. 

" Seven feet of water," he announced. " The 
bank is almost up and down. The first thing 
that touches will be her mast when she turns 
bottom up." 

An ominous, minute snapping noise came from 
the stern-line. Even as we looked, we saw a 
strand fray and part. Then we jumped. 
Scarcely had we bent another line between the 
stern and the wharf, when the original line 
parted. As we bent another line forward, the 
original one there crackled and parted. After 
that, it was an inferno of work and excitement. 
We ran more and more lines, and more and more 
lines continued to part, and more and more the 
pretty boat went over on her side. We bent all 
our spare lines ; we unrove sheets and halyards ; 
we used our two-inch hawser; w^e fastened lines 
part way up the mast, half way up, and every- 
where else. We toiled and sweated and enounced 
our mutual and sincere conviction that God's 
grudge still held against us. Country yokels 
came down on the wharf and sniggered at us. 
When Cloudesley let a coil of rope slip down the 
inclined deck into the vile slime and fished it out 
with seasick countenance, the yokels sniggered 



66 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

louder and it was all I could do to prevent him 
from climbing up on the wharf and committing 
murder. 

By the time the sloop's deck was perpendicular, 
we had unbent the boom-lift from below, made 
it fast to the wharf, and, with the other end fast 
nearly to the mast head, heaved it taut with 
block and tackle. The lift was of steel wire. 
We were confident that it could stand the strain, 
but we doubted the holding-power of the stays 
that held the mast. 

The tide had two more hours to ebb (and it was 
the big run-out), which meant that five hours 
must elapse ere the returning tide would give us 
a chance to learn whether or not the sloop would 
rise to it and right herself. The bank was al- 
most up and down, and at the bottom, directly 
beneath us, the fast-ebbing tide left a pit of the 
vilest, illest-smelling, illest-appearing muck to be 
seen in many a day's ride. Said Cloudesley to 
me gazing down into it : 

" I love you as a brother. I'd fight for you. 
I'd face roaring lions, and sudden death by field 
and flood. But just the same, don't you fall 
into that." He shuddered nauseously. " For if 
you do, I haven't the grit to pull you out. I 
simply couldn't. You'd be awful. The best I 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 67 

could do would be to take a boat-hook and shove 
you down out of sight.'' 

We sat on the upper side-wall of the cabin, 
dangled our legs down the top of the cabin, leaned 
our backs against the deck, and played chess un- 
til the rising tide and the block and tackle on 
the boom-lift enabled us to get her on a respect- 
able keel again. Years afterward, down in the 
South Seas, on the island of Ysabel, I was caught 
in a similar predicament. In order to clean her 
copper, I had careened the Snark broadside on 
to the beach and outward. When the tide rose, 
she refused to rise. The water crept in through 
the scuppers, mounted over the rail, and the level 
of the ocean slowly crawled up the slant of the 
deck. We battened down the engine room hatch, 
and the sea rose to it and over it and climbed 
perilously near to the cabin companionway and 
skylight. We were all sick with fever, but we 
turned out in the blazing tropic sun and toiled 
madly for several hours. We carried our heavi- 
est lines ashore from our mast-heads and heaved 
with our heaviest purchase until everything 
crackled including ourselves. We would spell 
off and lie down like dead men, then get up and 
heave and crackle again. And in the end, our 
lower rail five feet under water and the wavelets 



68 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

lapping the companionwaj combing, the sturdy 
little craft shivered and shook herself and pointed 
her masts once more to the zenith. 

There is never lack of exercise in small-boat 
sailing, and the hard work is not only part of the 
fun of it, but it beats the doctors. San Francisco 
Bay is no mill pond. It is a large and draughty 
and variegated piece of water. I remember, one 
winter evening, trying to enter the mouth of the 
Sacramento. There was a freshet on the river, 
the flood tide from the bay had been beaten back 
into a strong ebb, and the lusty west wind died 
down with the sun. It was just sunset, and wdth 
a fair to middling breeze, dead aft, we stood still 
in the rapid current. We were squarely in the 
mouth of the river; but there was no anchorage 
and we drifted backward, faster and faster, and 
dropped anchor outside as the last breath of 
wind left us. The night came on, beautiful and 
warm and starry. My one companion cooked 
supper, while on deck I put everything in shape 
Bristol fashion. When we turned in at nine 
o'clock the weather-promise was excellent. (If 
I had carried a barometer I'd have known better. ) 
By two in the morning our shrouds were thum- 
ming in a piping breeze, and I got up and gave 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 69 

her more scope on her hawser. Inside another 
hour there was no doubt that we were in for a 
southeaster. 

It is not nice to leave a warm bed and get out 
of a bad anchorage in a black blowy night, but 
we arose to the occasion, put in two reefs, and 
started to heave up. The winch was old, and 
the strain of the jumping head sea was too much 
for it. With the winch out of commission, it 
was impossible to heave up by hand. We knew, 
because we tried it and slaughtered our hands. 
Now a sailor hates to lose an anchor. It is a 
matter of pride. Of course, we could have 
buoyed ours and slipped it. Instead, however, I 
gave her still more hawser, veered her, and 
dropped the second anchor. 

There was little sleep after that, for first one 
and then the other of us would be rolled out of 
our bunks. The increasing size of the seas told 
us we were dragging, and when we struck the 
scoured channel we could tell by the feel of it that 
our two anchors were fairly skating across. It 
was a deep channel, the farther edge of it ris- 
ing steeply like the wall of a canyon, and when 
our anchors started up that wall they hit in and 
held. Yet, when we fetched up, through the 



70 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

darkness we could hear the seas breaking on 
the solid shore astern, and so near was it that we 
shortened the skiff's painter. 

Daylight showed us that between the stern of 
the skiff and destruction was no more than a 
score of feet. And how it did blow ! There were 
times, in the gusts, when the wind must have 
approached a velocity of seventy or eighty miles 
an hour. But the anchors held, and so nobly 
that our final anxiety was that the for'ard bitts 
would be jerked clean out of the boat. All day 
the sloop alternately ducked her nose under and 
sat down on her stern; and it was not till late 
afternoon that the storm broke in one last and 
worst mad gust. For a full five minutes an ab- 
solute dead calm prevailed, and then, with the 
suddenness of a thunderclap, the wind snorted 
out of the southwest — a shift of eight points and 
a boisterous gale. Another night of it was too 
much for us, and we hove up by hand in a cross 
head-sea. It was not stiff work. It was heart- 
breaking. And I know we were both near to 
crying from the hurt and the exhaustion. And 
when we did get the first anchor up-and-down 
we couldn't break it out. Between seas we 
snubbed her nose down to it, took plenty of turns, 
and stood clear as she jumped. Almost every- 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 71 

thing smashed and parted except the anchor-hold. 
The chocks were jerked out, the rail torn off, and 
the very covering-board splintered, and still the 
anchor held. At last, hoisting the reefed main- 
sail and slacking off a few of the hard-won feet 
of the chain, we sailed the anchor out. It was 
nip and tuck, though, and there were times when 
the boat was knocked down flat. We repeated 
the manoeuvre with the remaining anchor, and in 
the gathering darkness fled into the shelter of 
the river's mouth. 

I was born so long ago that I grew up before 
the era of gasoline. As a result, I am old-fash- 
ioned. I prefer a sail-boat to a motor-boat, and 
it is my belief that boat-sailing is a finer, more 
difficult, and sturdier art than running a motor. 
Gasoline engines are becoming fool proof, and 
while it is unfair to say that any fool can run an 
engine, it is fair to say that almost any one can. 
Not so, when it comes to sailing a boat. More 
skill, more intelligence, and a vast deal more 
training are necessary. It is the finest training 
in the world for boy and youth and man. If the 
boy is very small, equip him with a small, com- 
fortable skiff. He will do the rest. He won't 
need to be taught. Shortly he will be setting a 
tiny leg-of-mutton and steering with an oar. 



72 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Then he will begin to talk keels and centreboards 
and want to take his blankets out and stop 
aboard all night. 

But don't be afraid for him. He is bound to 
run risks and encounter accidents. Eemember, 
there are accidents in the nursery as well as out 
on the water. More bojs have died from hot- 
house culture than have died on boats large and 
small ; and more boys have been made into strong 
and reliant men by boat-sailing than by lawn- 
croquet and dancing school. 

And once a sailor, always a sailor. The savour 
of the salt never stales. The sailor never growls 
so old that he does not care to go back for one 
more wrestling bout with wind and wave. I 
know it of myself. I have turned rancher, and 
live beyond sight of the sea. Yet I can stay 
away from it only so long. After several months 
have passed, I begin to grow restless. I find 
myself day-dreaming over incidents of the last 
cruise, or wondering if the striped bass are run- 
ning on Wingo Slough, or eagerly reading the 
newspapers for reports of the first northern 
flights of ducks. And then, suddenly, there is a 
hurried packing of suit-cases and overhauling of 
gear, and w^e are off for Vallejo where the little 
Roamer lies, waiting, always waiting, for the 



SMALL-BOAT SAILING 73 

skiff to come alongside, for the lighting of the 
fire in the gallej-stove, for the pulling off of 
gaskets, the swinging up of the mainsail, and the 
rat-tat-tat of the reef -points, for the heaving short 
and the breaking out, and for the twirling of the 
wheel as she fills away and heads up Bay or down. 

Jack London. 

On Board RoameVf 
Sonoma Creek, 
April 15, 1911. 



FIVE 

FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 

"TTUH! Drive four horses! I wouldn't sit 

A ^ behind you — not for a thousand dollars 
— over them mountain roads." 

So said Henry, and he ought to have known, for 
he drives four horses himself. 

Said another Glen Ellen friend: "What? 
London? He drive four horses? Can't drive 
one ! " 

And the best of it is that he was right. Even 
after managing to get a few hundred miles with 
my four horses, I don't know how to drive one. 
Just the other day, swinging down a steep moun- 
tain road and rounding an abrupt turn, I came 
full tilt on a horse and buggy being driven by a 
woman up the hill. We could not pass on the 
narrow road, where was only a foot to spare, and 
my horses did not know how to back, especially 
up hill. About two hundred yards down the 
hill was a spot where we could pass. The driver 
of the buggy said she didn't dare back down be- 
cause she was not sure of the brake. And as I 

74 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 75 

didn't know how to tackle one horse, I didn't 
try it. So we unhitched her horse and backed 
down by hand. Which was very well, till it came 
to hitching the horse to the buggy again. She 
didn't know how. I didn't either, and I had de- 
pended on her knowledge. It took us about half 
an hour, with frequent debates and consultations, 
though it is an absolute certainty that never in 
its life was that horse hitched in that particular 
way. 

No; I can't harness up one horse. But I can 
four, which compels me to back up again to get 
to my beginning. Having selected Sonoma 
Valley for our abiding place, Charmian and I 
decided it w^as about time we knew what we had 
in our own county and the neighbouring ones. 
How to do it, was the first question. Among our 
many weaknesses is the one of being old-fash- 
ioned. We don't mix with gasoline very well. 
And, as true sailors should, we naturally gravi- 
tate toward horses. Being one of those lucky in- 
dividuals w^ho carries his office under his hat, I 
should have to take a typewriter and a load of 
books along. This put saddle-horses out of the 
running. Charmian suggested driving a span. 
She had faith in me; besides, she could drive a 
span herself. But when I thought of the many 



76 THE HUMA^^ DRIFT 

mountains to cross, and of crossing tliem for 
three months with a poor tired span, I vetoed 
the proposition and said we'd have to come back 
to gasoline after all. This she vetoed just as 
emphatically, and a deadlock obtained until I 
received inspiration. 

" Why not drive four horses? '' I said. 

" But you don't know how to drive four horses," 
was her objection. 

I threw my chest out and my shoulders back. 
"What man has done, I can do,"' I proclaimed 
grandly. "And please don't forget that when 
w^e sailed on the Snark I knew nothing of navi- 
gation, and that I taught myself as I sailed." 

"Very well," she said. (And there's faith 
for you ! ) " They shall be four saddle horses, 
and we'll strap our saddles on behind the rig." 

It was my turn to object. " Our saddle horses 
are not broken to harness." 

" Then break them." 

And what I knew about horses, much less about 
breaking them, was just about as much as any 
sailor knows. Having been kicked, bucked off, 
fallen over backward upon, and thrown out and 
run over, on very numerous occasions, I had a 
mighty vigorous respect for horses; but a wife's 
faith must be lived up to, and I went at it. 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 77 

King was a polo pony from St. Louis, and 
Prince a many-gaited love-horse from Pasadena. 
The hardest thing was to get them to dig in and 
pull. They rollicked along on the levels and 
galloped down the hills, but when they struck an 
up-grade and felt the weight of the breaking- 
cart, they stopped and turned around and looked 
at me. But I passed them, and my troubles be- 
gan. Milda was fourteen years old, an unadult- 
erated broncho, and in temperament was a com- 
bination of mule and jack -rabbit blended equally. 
If you pressed your hand on her flank and told 
her to get over, she lay down on you. If you got 
her by the head and told her to back, she walked 
forward over you. And if you got behind her 
and shoved and told her to '' Giddap ! ^' she sat 
down on you. Also, she wouldn't walk. For 
endless weary miles I strove with her, but never 
could I get her to walk a step. Finally, she was 
a manger-glutton. No matter how near or far 
from the stable, when six o'clock came around she 
bolted for home and never missed the directest 
cross-road. Many times I rejected her. 

The fourth and most rejected horse of all was 
the Outlaw. From the age of three to seven 
she had defied all horse-breakers and broken a 
number of them. Then a long, lanky cowboy. 



78 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

with a fifty -pound saddle and a Mexican bit had 
got her proud goat. I was the next owner. She 
was my favourite riding horse. Charmian said 
Fd have to put her in as a wheeler where I would 
have more control over her. Now Charmian had 
a favourite riding mare called Maid. I sug- 
gested Maid as a substitute. Charmian pointed 
out that my mare was a branded range horse, 
while hers was a near-thoroughbred, and that the 
legs of her mare would be ruined forever if she 
were driven for three months. I acknowledged 
her mare's thoroughbredness, and at the same 
time defied her to find any thoroughbred with as 
small and delicately -viciously pointed ears as my 
Outlaw. She indicated Maid's exquisitely thin 
shinbone. I measured the Outlaw's. It was 
equally thin, although, I insinuated, possibly 
more durable. This stabbed Charmian's pride. 
Of course her near-thoroughbred Maid, carrying 
the blood of "old'' Lexington, Morella, and a 
streak of the super-enduring Morgan, could run, 
walk, and work my unregistered Outlaw into the 
ground ; and that was the very precise reason why 
such a paragon of a saddle animal should not be 
degraded by harness. 

So it was that Charmian remained obdurate, 
until, one day, I got her behind the Outlaw for 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 79 

a forty-mile drive. For every inch of those forty 
miles the Outlaw kicked and jumped, in between 
the kicks and jumps finding time and space in 
which to seize its team-mate by the back of the 
neck and attempt to drag it to the ground. An- 
other trick the Outlaw developed during that 
drive was suddenly to turn at right angles in the 
traces and endeavour to butt its team-mate over 
the grade. Reluctantly and nobly did Charmian 
give in and consent to the use of Maid. The Out- 
law's shoes were pulled off, and she was turned 
out on range. 

Finally, the four horses were hooked to the 
rig — a light Studebaker trap. With two hours 
and a half of practice, in which the excitement 
was not abated by several jackpoles and numer- 
ous kicking matches, I announced myself as ready 
for the start. Came the morning, and Prince, 
who was to have been a wheeler with Maid, 
showed up with a badly kicked shoulder. He did 
not exactly show up ; we had to find him, for he 
was unable to walk. His leg swelled and con- 
tinually swelled during the several days we 
waited for him. Remained only the Outlaw. In 
from pasture she came, shoes were nailed on, and 
she was harnessed into the wheel. Friends and 
relatives strove to press accident policies on me. 



80 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

but Charmian climbed up alongside, and Nakata 
got into the rear seat with the typewriter — 
Nakata, who sailed cabin-boy on the Snark for 
two years and who has shown himself afraid of 
nothing, not even of me and my amateur jam- 
borees in experimenting with new modes of loco- 
motion. And we did very nicely, thank you, 
especially after the first hour or so, during which 
time the Outlaw had kicked about fifty various 
times, chiefly to the damage of her own legs and 
the paintwork, and after she had bitten a couple 
of hundred times, to the damage of Maid's neck 
and Charmian's temper. It was hard enough to 
have her favourite mare in the harness without 
also enduring the spectacle of its being eaten 
alive. 

Our leaders were joys. King being a pole 
pony and Milda a rabbit, they rounded curves 
beautifully and darted ahead like coyotes out 
of the way of the wheelers. Milda's besetting 
weakness was a frantic desire not to have the 
lead-bar strike her hocks. When this happened, 
one of three things occurred : either she sat down 
on the lead-bar, kicked it up in the air until she 
got her back under it, or exploded in a straight- 
ahead, harness-disrupting jump. Not until she 
carried the lead-bar clean away and danced a 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 81 

break-down on it and the traces, did she behave 
decently. Nakata and I made the repairs with 
good old-fashioned bale-rope, which is stronger 
than wrought-iron any time, and we went on our 
way. 

In the meantime I was learning — I shall not 
say to tool a four-in-hand — but just simply to 
drive four horses. Now it is all right enough to 
begin with four work-horses pulling a load of 
several tons. But to begin with four light 
horses, all running, and a light rig that seems to 
outrun them — well, when things happen they 
happen quickly. My weakness was total igno- 
rance. In particular, my fingers lacked training, 
and I made the mistake of depending on my eyes 
to handle the reins. This brought me up against 
a disastrous optical illusion. The bight of the 
off head-line, being longer and heavier than that 
of the off wheel-line, hung lower. In a moment 
requiring quick action, I invariably mistook the 
two lines. Pulling on what I thought was the 
wheel-line, in order to straighten the team, I 
would see the leaders swing abruptly around into 
a jack-pole. Now for sensations of sheer im- 
potence, nothing can compare with a jack-pole, 
when the horrified driver beholds his leaders 
prancing gaily up the road and his wheelers 



82 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

jogging steadily down the road, all at the same 
time and all harnessed together and to the same 
rig. 

I no longer jack-pole, and I don't mind admit- 
ting how I got out of the habit. It was my eyes 
that enslaved my fingers into ill practices. So 
I shut my eyes and let the fingers go it alone. 
To-day my fingers are independent of my eyes 
and work automatically. I do not see what my 
fingers do. They just do it. All I see is the 
satisfactory result. 

Still we managed to get over the ground that 
first day — down sunny Sonoma Valley to the 
old town of Sonoma, founded by General Vallejo 
as the remotest outpost on the northern frontier 
for the purpose of holding back the Gentiles, as 
the wild Indians of those days were called. Here 
history was made. Here the last Spanish mis- 
sion was reared; here the Bear flag was raised; 
and here Kit Carson, and Fremont, and all our 
early adventurers came and rested in the days 
before the days of gold. 

We swung on over the low, rolling hills, 
through miles of dairy farms and chicken ranches 
where every blessed hen is white, and down the 
slopes to Petaluma Valley. Here, in 1776, Cap- 
tain Quiros came up Petaluma Creek from San 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 83 

Pablo Bay in quest of an outlet to Bodega Bay 
on the coast. And here, later, the Russians, with 
Alaskan hunters, carried ski boats across from 
Fort Ross to poach for sea-otters on the Spanish 
preserve of San Francisco Bay. Here, too, still 
later, General Vallejo built a fort, which still 
stands — one of the finest examples of Spanish 
adobe that remain to us. And here, at the old 
fort, to bring the chronicle up to date, our horses 
proceeded to make peculiarly personal history 
with astonishing success and dispatch. King, 
our peerless, polo-pony leader, went lame. So 
hopelessly lame did he go that no expert, then and 
afterward, could determine whether the lame- 
ness was in his frogs, hoofs, legs, shoulders, or 
head. Maid picked up a nail and began to limp. 
Milda, figuring the day already sufficiently spent 
and maniacal with manger gluttony, began to 
rabbit- jump. All that held her was the bale- 
rope. And the Outlaw, game to the last, ex- 
ceeded all previous exhibitions of skin-removing, 
paint-marring, and horse-eating. 

At Petaluma we rested over while King was 
returned to the ranch and Prince sent to us. 
Now Prince had proved himself an excellent 
wheeler, yet he had to go into the lead and let the 
Outlaw retain his old place. There is an axiom 



84: THE HUMAN DRIFT 

that a good wheeler is a poor leader. I object 
to the last adjective. A good wheeler makes an 
infinitely worse kind of a leader than that. I 
know . . . now. I ought to know. Since that 
day I have driven Prince a few hundred miles 
in the lead. He is neither any better nor any 
worse than the first mile he ran in the lead ; and 
his worst is even extremely worse than what you 
are thinking. Not that he is vicious. He is 
merely a good-natured rogue who shakes hands 
for sugar, steps on your toes out of sheer exces- 
sive friendliness, and just goes on loving you in 
your harshest moments. 

But he won't get out of the way. Also, when- 
ever he is reproved for being in the wrong, he 
accuses Milda of it and bites the back of her neck. 
So bad has this become that whenever I yell 
" Prince ! " in a loud voice, Milda immediately 
rabbit- jumps to the side, straight ahead, or sits 
down on the lead-bar. All of which is quite dis- 
concerting. Picture it yourself. You are swing- 
ing a sharp, down-grade, mountain curve, at a 
fast trot. The rock wall is the outside of the 
curve. The inside of the curve is a precipice. 
The continuance of the curve is a narrow, un- 
railed bridge. You hit the curve, throwing the 
leaders in against the wall and making the pole- 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 85 

horse do the work. All is lovely. The leaders 
are hugging the wall like nestling doves. But 
the moment comes in the evolution when the 
leaders must shoot out ahead. They really must 
shoot, or else they'll hit the wall and miss the 
bridge. Also, behind them are the wheelers, and 
the rig, and you have just eased the brake in 
order to put sufficient snap into the manoeuvre. 
If ever team-work is required, now is the time. 
Milda tries to shoot. She does her best, but 
Prince, bubbling over with roguishness, lags be- 
hind. He knows the trick. Milda is half a 
length ahead of him. He times it to the frac- 
tion of a second. Maid, in the wheel, over-run- 
ning him, naturally bites him. This disturbs the 
Outlaw, who has been behaving beautifully, and 
she immediately reaches across for Maid. Sim- 
ultaneously, with a fine display of firm convic- 
tion that it^s all Milda's fault. Prince sinks his 
teeth into the back of Milda's defenceless neck. 
The whole thing has occurred in less than a sec- 
ond. Under the surprise and pain of the bite, 
Milda either jumps ahead to the imminent peril 
of harness and lead-bar, or smashes into the 
wall, stops short with the lead-bar over her back, 
and emits a couple of hysterical kicks. The 
Outlaw invariably selects this moment to remove 



86 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

paint. And after things are untangled and you 
have had time to appreciate the close shave, you 
go up to Prince and reprove him with your choic- 
est vocabulary. And Prince, gazelle-eyed and 
tender, offers to shake hands with you for sugar. 
I leave it to any one : a boat would never act that 
way. 

We have some history north of the Bay. 
Nearly three centuries and a half ago, that 
doughty pirate and explorer, Sir Francis Drake, 
combing the Pacific for Spanish galloons, 
anchored in the bight formed by Point Reyes, on 
which to-day is one of the richest dairy regions 
in the world. Here, less than two decades after 
Drake, Sebastien Carmenon piled up on the rocks 
with a silk-laden galleon from the Philippines. 
And in this same bay of Drake, long afterward, 
the Russian fur-poachers rendezvoused their 
MdarJces and stole in through the Golden Gate 
to the forbidden waters of San Francisco Bay. 

Farther up the coast, in Sonoma County, we 
pilgrimaged to the sites of the Russian settle- 
ments. At Bodega Bay, south of what to-day is 
called Russian River, was their anchorage, while 
north of the river they built their fort. And 
much of Fort Ross still stands. Log-bastions, 
church, and stables hold their own, and so well. 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 87 

with rusty hinges creaking, that we warmed our- 
selves at the hundred-years-old double fireplace 
and slept under the hand-hewn roof beams still 
held together by spikes of hand-wrought iron. 

We went to see where history had been made, 
and we saw scenery as well. One of our stretches 
in a day's drive was from beautiful Inverness on 
Tomales Bay, down the Olema Valley to Bolinas 
Bay, along the eastern shore of that body of water 
to Willow Camp, and up over the sea-bluffs, 
around the bastions of Tamalpais, and down to 
Sausalito. From the head of Bolinas Bay to 
Willow Camp the drive on the edge of the beach, 
and actually, for half-mile stretches, in the waters 
of the bay itself, was a delightful experience. 
The wonderful part was to come. Very few San 
Franciscans, much less Californians, know of 
that drive from Willow Camp, to the south and 
east, along the poppy-blown cliffs, with the sea 
thundering in the sheer depths hundreds of feet 
below and the Golden Gate opening up ahead, 
disclosing smoky San Francisco on her many 
hills. Far off, blurred on the breast of the sea, 
can be seen the Farallones, which Sir Francis 
Drake passed on a S. W. course in the thick of 
what he describes as a " stynking fog." Well 
might he call it that, and a few other names, for 



88 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

it was the fog that robbed him of the glory of 
discovering San Francisco Bay. 

It was on this part of the drive that I decided 
at last I was learning real mountain-driving. 
To confess the truth, for delicious titillation of 
one's nerve, I have since driven over no moun- 
tain road that was worse, or better, rather, than 
that piece. 

And then the contrast ! From Sausalito, over 
excellent, park-like boulevards, through the 
splendid redwoods and homes of Mill Valley, 
across the blossomed hills of Marin County, along 
the knoll-studded picturesque marshes, past San 
Rafael resting warmly among her hills, over the 
divide and up the Petaluma Valley, and on to 
the grassy feet of Sonoma Mountain and home. 
We covered fifty-five miles that day. Not so bad, 
eh, for Prince the Rogue, the paint-removing 
Outlaw, the thin-shanked thorough-bred, and the 
rabbit- jumper? And they came in cool and dry, 
ready for their mangers and the straw. 

Oh, we didn't stop. We considered we were 
just starting, and that was many weeks ago. 
We have kept on going over six counties which 
are comfortably large, even for California, and 
we are still going. We have twisted and 
doubled, criss-crossed our tracks, made fascinat- 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 89 

ing and lengthy dives into the interior valleys in 
the hearts of Napa and Lake Counties, travelled 
the coast for hundreds of miles on end, and are 
now in Eureka, on Humboldt Bay, which was 
discovered by accident by the gold-seekers, who 
were trying to find their way to and from the 
Trinity diggings. Even here, the whiteman's his- 
tory preceded them, for dim tradition says that 
the Russians once anchored here and hunted 
sea-otter before the first Yankee trader rounded 
the Horn, or the first Rocky Mountain trapper 
thirsted across the " Great American Desert '^ 
and trickled down the snowy Sierras to the sun- 
kissed land. No; we are not resting our horses 
here on Humboldt Bay. We are writing this 
article, gorging on abalones and mussels, digging 
clams, and catching record-breaking sea-trout 
and rock-cod in the intervals in which we are 
not sailing, motor-boating, and swimming in the 
most temperately equable climate we have ever 
experienced. 

These comfortably large counties! They are 
veritable empires. Take Humboldt, for instance. 
It is three times as large as Rhode Island, one 
and a half times as large as Delaware, almost as 
large as Connecticut, and half as large as 
Massachusetts. The pioneer has done his work 



90 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

in this north of the bay region, the foundations 
are laid, and all is ready for the inevitable in- 
rush of population and adequate development of 
resources which so far have been no more than 
skimmed, and casually and carelessly skimmed 
at that. This region of the six counties alone 
will some day support a population of millions. 
In the meanwhile, O you home-seekers, you 
wealth-seekers, and, above all, you climate-seek- 
ers, now is the time to get in on the ground floor. 
Robert Ingersoll once said that the genial 
climate of California would in a fairly brief time 
evolve a race resembling the Mexicans, and that 
in two or three generations the Californians 
would be seen of a Sunday morning on their way 
to a cockfight with a rooster under each arm. 
Never was made a rasher generalisation, based 
on so absolute an ignorance of facts. It is to 
laugh. Here is a climate that breeds vigour, 
with just sufficient geniality to prevent the ex- 
penditure of most of that vigour in fighting the 
elements. Here is a climate where a man can 
work three hundred and sixty-five days in the 
year without the slightest hint of enervation, and 
where for three hundred and sixty-five nights he 
must perforce sleep under blankets. What more 
can one say? I consider myself somewhat of a 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 91 

climate expert, having adventured among most of 
the climates of five out of the six zones. I have 
not yet been in the Antarctic, but whatever 
climate obtains there will not deter me from 
drawing the conclusion that nowhere is there a 
climate to compare with that of this region. 
Maybe I am as wrong as Ingersoll was. Never- 
theless I take my medicine by continuing to live 
in this climate. Also, it is the only medicine I 
ever take. 

But to return to the horses. There is some 
improvement. Milda has actually learned to 
walk. Maid has proved her thoroughbredness by 
never tiring on the longest days, and, while be- 
ing the strongest and highest spirited of all, by 
never causing any trouble save for an occasional 
kick at the Outlaw. And the Outlaw rarely 
gallops, no longer butts, only periodically kicks, 
comes in to the pole and does her work without 
attempting to vivisect Maid's medulla oblongata, 
and — marvel of marvels — is really and truly 
getting lazy. But Prince remains the same in- 
corrigible, loving and lovable rogue he has always 
been. 

And the country we've been over ! The drives 
through Napa and Lake Counties! One, from 
Sonoma Valley, via Santa Rosa, we could not 



92 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

refrain from taking several ways, and on all the 
ways we found the roads excellent for machines 
as well as horses. One route, and a more de- 
lightful one for an automobile cannot be found, 
is out from Santa Rosa, past old Altruria and 
Mark West Springs, then to the right and across 
to Calistoga in Napa Valley. By keeping to 
the left, the drive holds on up the Russian River 
Valley, through the miles of the noted Asti Vine- 
yards to Cloverdale, and then by way of Pieta, 
Witter, and Highland Springs to Lakeport. Still 
another way we took, was down Sonoma Valley, 
skirting San Pablo Bay, and up the lovely Napa 
Valley. From Napa were side excursions 
through Pope and Berryessa Valleys, on to 
^tna Springs, and still on, into Lake County, 
crossing the famous Langtry Ranch. 

Continuing up the Napa Valley, walled on 
either hand by great rock palisades and redwood 
forests and carpeted with endless vineyards, and 
crossing the many stone bridges for which the 
County is noted and which are a joy to the beauty- 
loving eyes as well as to the four-horse tyro 
driver, past Calistoga with its old mud-baths and 
chicken-soup springs, with St. Helena and its 
giant saddle ever towering before us, we climbed 
the mountains on a good grade and dropped 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 93 

down past the quicksilver mines to the canyon 
of the Geysers. After a stop over night and 
an exploration of the miniature-grand volcanic 
scene, we pulled on across the canyon and took 
the grade where the cicades simmered audibly in 
the noon sunshine among the hillside manzanitas. 
Then, higher, came the big cattle-dotted upland 
pastures, and the rocky summit. And here on 
the summit, abruptly, we caught a vision, or what 
seemed a mirage. The ocean we had left long 
days before, yet far down and away shimmered 
a blue sea, framed on the farther shore by rugged 
mountains, on the near shore by fat and rolling 
farm lands. Clear Lake w^as before us, and like 
proper sailors we returned to our sea, going for a 
sail, a fish, and a swim ere the day was done and 
turning into tired Lakeport blankets in the early 
evening. Well has Lake County been called the 
Walled-in County. But the railroad is coming. 
They say the approach we made to Clear Lake is 
similar to the approach to Lake Lucerne. Be 
that as it may, the scenery, with its distant snow- 
capped peaks, can well be called Alpine. 

And what can be more exquisite than the drive 
out from Clear Lake to Ukiah by way of the 
Blue Lakes chain ! — every turn bringing into 
view a picture of breathless beauty ; every glance 



94 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

backward revealing some perfect composition in 
line and colour, the intense blue of the water 
margined with splendid oaks, green fields, and 
swaths of orange poppies. But those side 
glances and backw^ard glances were provocative 
of trouble. Charmian and I disagreed as to 
which way the connecting stream of water ran. 
We still disagree, for at the hotel, where we 
submitted the affair to arbitration, the hotel 
manager and the clerk likewise disagreed. I 
assume, now, that we never will know which way 
that stream runs. Charmian suggests " both 
ways." I refuse such a compromise. No stream 
of water I ever saw could accomplish that feat at 
one and the same time. The greatest concession 
I can make is that sometimes it may run one way 
and sometimes the other, and that in the mean- 
time we should both consult an oculist. 

More valley from Ukiah to Willits, and then 
we turned westward through the virgin Sher- 
wood Forest of magnificent redwood, stopping at 
Alpine for the night and continuing on through 
Mendocino County to Fort Bragg and " salt 
water.'' We also came to Fort Bragg up the 
coast from Fort Ross, keeping our coast journey 
intact from the Golden Gate. The coast weather 
was cool and delightful, the coast driving superb. 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 95 

Especially in the Fort Ross section did we find 
the roads thrilling, while all the way along we 
followed the sea. At every stream, the road 
skirted dizzy cliff-edges, dived down into lush 
growths of forest and ferns and climbed out along 
the cliff -edges again. The way w^as lined with 
flowers — wild lilac, wild roses, poppies, and 
lupins. Such lupins I — giant clumps of them, 
of every lupin-shade and -colour. And it w^as 
along the Mendocino roads that Charmian caused 
many delays by insisting on getting out to pick 
the wild blackberries, strawberries, and thimble- 
berries which grew so profusely. And ever we 
caught peeps, far down, of steam schooners load- 
ing lumber in the rocky coves; ever we skirted 
the cliffs, day after day, crossing stretches of 
rolling farm lands and passing through thriving 
villages and saw-mill towns. Memorable was 
our launch-trip from Mendocino City up Big 
River, where the steering gears of the launches 
work the reverse of anyw^here else in the world ; 
where we saw a stream of logs, of six to twelve 
and fifteen feet in diameter, which filled the river 
bed for miles to the obliteration of any sign of 
water; and where we were told of a white or 
albino redwood tree. We did not see this last, 
so cannot vouch for it. 



96 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

All the streams were filled with trout, and 
more than once we saw the side-hill salmon on 
the slopes. No, side-hill salmon is not a peripa- 
tetic fish; it is a deer out of season. But the 
trout! At Gualala Charmian caught her first 
one. Once before in my life I had caught 
two ... on angleworms. On occasion I had 
tried fly and spinner and never got a strike, and 
I had come to believe that all this talk of fly- 
fishing was just so much nature-faking. But on 
the Gualala Kiver I caught trout — a lot of them 
— on fly and spinners; and I was beginning to 
feel quite an expert, until Nakata, fishing on bot- 
tom with a pellet of bread for bait, caught the 
biggest trout of all. I now afifirm there is noth- 
ing in science nor in art. Nevertheless, since 
that day poles and baskets have been added to 
our baggage, we tackle every stream we come to, 
and we no longer are able to remember the grand 
total of our catch. 

At Usal, many hilly and picturesque miles 
north of Fort Bragg, we turned again into the 
interior of Mendocino, crossing the ranges and 
coming out in Humboldt County on the south 
fork of Eel River at Garberville. Throughout 
the trip, from Marin County north, we had been 
warned of "bad roads ahead.'' Yet we never 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 97 

found those bad roads. We seemed always to be 
just ahead of them or behind them. The farther 
we came the better the roads seemed, though this 
was probably due to the fact that we were learn- 
ing more and more w^hat four horses and a light 
rig could do on a road. And thus do I save my 
face with all the counties. I refuse to m.ake in- 
vidious road comparisons. I can add that while, 
save in rare instances on steep pitches, I have 
trotted my horses down all the grades, I have 
never had one horse fall down nor have I had 
to send the rig to a blacksmith shop for repairs. 

Also, I am learning to throw leather. If any 
tyro thinks it is easy to take a short-handled, 
long-lashed whip, and throw the end of that lash 
just where he wants it, let him put on automobile 
goggles and try it. On reconsideration, I would 
suggest the substitution of a wire fencing-mask 
for the goggles. For days I looked at that whip. 
It fascinated me, and the fascination was com- 
posed mostly of fear. At my first attempt, 
Charmian and Nakata became afflicted with the 
same sort of fascination, and for a long time 
afterward, whenever they saw me reach for the 
whip, they closed their eyes and shielded their 
heads with their arms. 

Here's the problem. Instead of pulling 



98 THE HUMA:^r DRIFT 

honestly, Prince is lagging back and manoeuvre- 
ing for a bite at Hilda's neck. I have four reins 
in my hands. I must put these four reins into 
my left hand, properly gather the whip handle 
and the bight of the lash in my right hand, and 
throw that lash past Maid without striking her 
and into Prince. If the lash strikes Maid, her 
thoroughbredness will go up in the air and I'll 
have a case of horse hysteria on my hands for 
the next half hour. But follow. The whole 
problem is not yet stated. Suppose that I miss 
Maid and reach the intended target. The in- 
stant the lash cracks, the four horses jump. 
Prince most of all, and his jump, with spread 
wicked teeth, is for the back of Milda's neck. 
She jumps to escape — which is her second jump, 
for the first one came when the lash exploded. 
The Outlaw reaches for Maid's neck, and Maid, 
who has already jumped and tried to bolt, tries to 
bolt harder. And all this infinitesimal fraction 
of time I am trying to hold the four animals with 
my left hand, while my whip-lash writhing 
through the air, is coming back to me. Three 
simultaneous things I must do: keep hold of 
the four hands with my left hand; slam on the 
brake with my foot; and on the rebound catch 



FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR 99 

that flying lash in the hollow of my right arm 
and get the bight of it safely into my right hand. 
Then I must get two of the four lines back into 
my right hand and keep the horses from running 
away or going over the grade. Try it some time. 
You will find life anything but wearisome. 
Why, the first time I hit the mark and made the 
lash go off like a revolver shot, I was so 
astounded and delighted that I was paralysed. 
I forgot to do any of the multitudinous other 
things, tangled the whip lash in Maid's harness, 
and was forced to call upon Charmian for assist- 
ance. And now, confession. I carry a few peb- 
bles handy. They're great for reaching Prince 
in a tight place. But just the same I'm learning 
that whip every day, and before I get home I 
hope to discard the pebbles. And as long as I 
rely on pebbles, I cannot truthfully speak of 
myself as " tooling a four-in-hand." 

From Garberville, where we ate eel to reple- 
tion and got acquainted with the aborigines, we 
drove down the Eel River Valley for two days 
through the most unthinkably glorious body of 
redwood timber to be seen anywhere in Cali- 
fornia. From Dyerville on to Eureka, we caught 
glimpses of railroad construction and of great 



100 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

concrete bridges in the course of building, which 
advertised that at least Humboldt County was 
going to be linked to the rest of the world. 

We still consider our trip is just begun. As 
soon as this is mailed from Eureka, it's heigh ho ! 
for the horses and pull on. We shall continue 
up the coast, turn in for Hoopa Reservation and 
the gold mines, and shoot down the Trinity and 
Klamath rivers in Indian canoes to Requa. 
After that, we shall go on through Del Norte 
County and into Oregon. The trip so far has 
justified us in taking the attitude that we won't 
go home until the winter rains drive us in. And, 
finally, I am going to try the experiment of put- 
ting the Outlaw in the lead and relegating Prince 
to his old position in the near wheel. I won't 
need any pebbles then.^ 

1 In the Spring of 1916, Sonoma Maid, mother of two fine 
colts, died in giving birth to a third. Also, during this year, 
Prince contracted an incurable rheumatism, and Milda began 
to show an incurable agedness. Jack had always said that 
the team should never leave the ranch, and so, following his 
own death in November, 1916, w^e laid away Prince the 
Love Horse, and Milda the Rabbit, on our hillside in the 
Valley of the Moon. Gert the Outlaw still flourishes upon 
her master's acres, and is the mother of three fine colts. — 
C. K. L. 



SIX 

A CLASSIC OF THE SEA 

Introduction to " Two Years Before the Mast.'^ 

ONCE in a hundred years is a book written 
that lives not alone for its own century but 
which becomes a document for the future cen- 
turies. Such a book is Dana's. When Marry- 
at's and Cooper's sea novels are gone to dust, 
stimulating and joyful as they have been to gen- 
erations of men, still will remain " Two Years 
Before the Mast.'' 

Paradoxical as it may seem, Dana's book is the 
classic of the sea, not because there was anything 
extraordinary about Dana, but for the precise 
contrary reason that he was just an ordinary, 
normal man, clear-seeing, hard-headed, con- 
trolled, fitted with adequate education to go 
about the work. He brought a trained mind to 
put down with untroubled vision what he saw of 
a certain phase of work-a-day life. There was 
nothing brilliant nor fly-away about him. He 

101 



102 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

was not a genius. His heart never rode his 
head. He was neither overlorded by sentiment 
nor hag-ridden by imagination. Otherwise he 
might have been guilty of the beautiful exagger- 
ations in Melville's " Typee " or the imaginative 
orgies in the latter's " Moby Dick." It was 
Dana^s cool poise that saved him from being 
spread-eagled and flogged when two of his mates 
were so treated ; it was his lack of abandon that 
prevented him from taking up permanently with 
the sea, that prevented him from seeing more 
than one poetical spot, and more than one ro- 
mantic spot on all the coast of Old California. 
Yet these apparent defects were his strength. 
They enabled him magnificently to write, and 
for all time, the picture of the sea-life of his time. 
Written close to the middle of the last century, 
such has been the revolution worked in man's 
method of trafficking with the sea, that the life 
and conditions described in Dana's book have 
passed utterly away. Gone are the crack clip- 
pers, the driving captains, the hard-bitten but 
efficient foremast hands. Remain only crawling 
cargo tanks, dirty tramps, greyhound liners, and 
a sombre, sordid type of sailing ship. The only 
records broken to-day by sailing vessels are those 
for slowness. They are no longer built for speed. 



A CLASSIC OF THE SEA 103 

nor are thej manned before the mast by as sturdy 
a sailor stock, nor aft the mast are they officered 
by sail-carrying captains and driving mates. 

Speed is left to the liners, who run the silk, 
and tea, and spices. Admiralty courts, boards 
of trade, and underwriters frown upon driving 
and sail-carrying. No more are the free-and- 
easy, dare-devil days, when fortunes were made 
in fast runs and lucky ventures, not alone for 
owners, but for captains as well. Nothing is 
ventured now. The risks of swift passages can- 
not be abided. Freights are calculated to the 
last least fraction of per cent. The captains do 
no speculating, no bargain-making for the own- 
ers. The latter attend to all this, and by wire 
and cable rake the ports of the seven seas in 
quest of cargoes, and through their agents make 
all business arrangements. 

It has been learned that small crews only, and 
large carriers only, can return a decent interest 
on the investment. The inevitable corollary is 
that speed and spirit are at a discount. There 
is no discussion of the fact that in the sailing 
merchant marine the seamen, as a class, have 
sadly deteriorated. Men no longer sell farms to 
go to sea. But the time of which Dana writes 
was the heyday of fortune-making and adventure 



104 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

on the sea — with the full connotation of hard- 
ship and peril always attendant. 

It was Dana's fortune, for the sake of the 
picture that the Pilgrim was an average ship, 
with an average crew and officers, and managed 
with average discipline. Even the hazing that 
took place after the California coast was reached, 
was of the average sort. The Pilgrim savoured 
not in any way of a hell-ship. The captain, 
while not the sweetest-natured man in the world, 
was only an average down-east driver, neither 
brilliant nor slovenly in his seamanship, neither 
cruel nor sentimental in the treatment of his men. 
While, on the one hand, there were no extra 
liberty days, no delicacies added to the meagre 
forecastle fare, nor grog or hot coffee on double 
watches, on the other hand the crew was not 
chronically crippled by the continual play of 
knuckle-dusters and belaying pins. Once, and 
once only, were men flogged or ironed — a very 
fair average for the year 1834, for at that time 
flogging on board merchant vessels was already 
well on the decline. 

The difference between the sea-life then and 
now can be no better epitomised than in Dana's 
description of the dress of the sailor of his day : 

" The trousers tight around the hips, and 



A CLASSIC OF THE SEA 105 

thence hanging long and loose around the feet, 
a superabundance of checked shirt, a low- 
crowned, well-varnished black hat, worn on the 
back of the head, with half a fathom of black 
ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar 
tie to the black silk neckerchief." 

Though Dana sailed from Boston only three- 
quarters of a century ago, much that is at present 
obsolete was then in full sway. For instance, 
the old word larboard was still in use. He was 
a member of the larboard watch. The vessel was 
on the larboard tack. It was only the other day, 
because of its similarity in sound to starboard, 
that larboard was changed to port. Try to 
imagine " All larboard bowlines on deck ! " being 
shouted down into the forecastle of a present day 
ship. Yet that was the call used on the Pilgrim 
to fetch Dana and the rest of his watch on deck. 

The chronometer, which is merely the least 
imperfect time-piece man has devised, makes pos- 
sible the surest and easiest method by far of as- 
certaining longitude. Yet the Pilgrim sailed in 
a day when the chronometer was just coming into 
general use. So little was it depended upon that 
the Pilgrim carried only one, and that one, going 
wrong at the outset, was never used again. A 
navigator of the present would be aghast if asked 



106 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

to voyage for two years, from Boston, around the 
Horn to California, and back again, without a 
chronometer. In those days such a proceeding 
was a matter of course, for those were the days 
when dead reckoning was indeed something to 
reckon on, when running down the latitude w^as 
a common way of finding a place, and w^hen lunar 
observations were direly necessary. It may be 
fairly asserted that very few merchant officers 
of to-day ever make a lunar observation, and 
that a large percentage are unable to do it. 

^^ Sept. 22nd. y upon coming on deck at seven 
bells in the morning we found the other watch 
aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking 
astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a 
black hull heading directly after us. We went 
to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon 
the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out 
oars for studding-sail yards ; and continued wet- 
ting down the sails by buckets of water whipped 
up to the mast head. . . . She was armed, and 
full of men, and showed no colors." 

The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from 
"Midshipman Easy" or the "Water Witch," 
rather than a paragraph from the soberest, faith- 
fulest, and most literal chronicle of the sea ever 
written. And yet the chase by a pirate occurred, 



A CLASSIC OF THE SEA 107 

on board the brig Pilgrim, on September 22nd, 
1834 — something like only two generations ago. 

Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not 
overbalanced and erratic, without quirk or quib- 
ble of temperament. He was efficient, but not 
brilliant. His was a general all-around effi- 
ciency. He was efficient at the law; he was effi- 
cient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he 
was efficient in the matter of pride, when that 
pride was no more than the pride of a forecastle 
hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his seaman's 
task well done, in the smart sailing of his cap- 
tain, in the cleanness and trimness of his ship. 

There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart 
will not warm to Dana's description of the first 
time he sent down a royal yard. Once or twice 
he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the 
crew to coach him. And then, the first anchor- 
age at Monterey, being pretty thick with the 
second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be 
sent up the first time the royal yards were struck. 
" Fortunately," as Dana describes it, " I got 
through without any word from the officer; and 
heard the ' well done ' of the mate, when the yard 
reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I 
ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a ^ bene ' at the 
foot of a Latin exercise.'' 



108 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

" This was the first time I had taken a 
weather ear-ring, and I felt not a little proud to 
sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past the 
ear-ring, and sing out ■' Haul out to leeward! ' '' 
He had been over a year at sea before he essayed 
this able seaman's task, but he did it, and he did 
it with pride. And with pride, he went down a 
four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant 
studding-sail halyards bent together, to dislodge 
several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, 
though all the acclaim he got from his mates 

was: "What a d d fool you were to risk 

your life for half a dozen hides ! " 

In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as 
well as work, that enabled Dana to set down, not 
merely the photograph detail of life before the 
mast and hide-droghing on the coast of Cali- 
fornia, but of the unvarnished, simple psychology 
and ethics of the forecastle hands who droghed 
the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in 
sail, tarred down the rigging, holystoned the 
decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as they 
cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of 
their officers, and estimated the duration of their 
exile from the cubic space of the hide-house. 

Jack London. 

Glen Ellen, California, 
August 13, 1911. 



A WICKED WOMAN 

(Curtain-Raiser) 
By jack LONDON 



Scene — California. 

Time — Afternoon of a summer day. 



CHARACTERS 

LoRETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully in- 
nocent. About nineteen years old. Slender, 
delicate, a fragile flower. Ingenuous. 

Ned Bashford, A jaded young man of the world, 
who has philosophised his experiences and who 
is without faith in the veracity or purity of 
women. 

Billy Marsh^ A boy from a country town who is 
just about as innocent as Loretta. Awkward. 
Positive. Raw and callow youth. 

Alice Hemingway, A society woman, good- 
hearted, and a match-maker. 

Jack Hemingway, Her husband. 

Maid. 



A WICKED WOMAN 

[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of 
a country house in California, It is the Hem- 
ingway house at ^anta Clara. The room is 
remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at 
rear centre. On either side of fireplace are 
generous^ diamond-paned windows. Wide, 
curtained doorways to right and left. To left, 
front, table, with vase of flowers and chairs. 
To right, front, grand piano.] 

[Curtain discovers Loretta seated at piano, not 
playing, her hack to it, facing Ned Bashford^, 
who is standing.] 

Loretta 
[Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of 
music] No, I won't go fishing. It's too warm. 
Besides, the fish won't bite so early in the after- 
noon. 

Ned 
Oh, Come on. It's not warm at all. And 
anyway, we won't really fish. I want to tell 
you something. 

Ill 



112 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

LORETTA 

[Still petulantlif.] You are always wanting 
to tell me something. 

Ned 

Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This 
is serious. Our . . . my happiness depends 
upon it. 

LORETTA 

[Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking 
serious and delighted, divining a proposal.] 
Then don't wait. Tell me right here. 

Ned 
[Almost threateningly.] Shall I? 

LORETTA 

[Challenging.] Yes. 

[He looks arou7id apprehensively as though 
fearing interruption, clears his throat, 
takes resolution, also takes Loretta^s 
hand.] 
[LoRETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to 
hear, naively unahle to conceal her love 
for him.] 

Ned 
[Speaking softly.] Loretta . . . I . . . ever 
since I met you I have — 



A WICKED WOMAN 113 

[Jack Hemingway appears in the doorway 

to the lefty just entering.] 
[Ned suddenly drops Loretta^s hand. He 

shows exasperation.] 
[LoRETTA shows disappointment at inter- 
ruption.] 

Ned 
Confound it ! 

LORETTA 

[Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so? 

Ned 
[Testily.] That isn't swearing. 

Loretta 
What is it, pray? 

Ned 
Displeasuring. 

Jack Hemingway 
[Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling 
again? 

Loretta 
[Indignantly and with dignity.] No, we're 
not. 

Ned 
[Gruffly.] What do you want now? 



114 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Jack Hemingway 
[Enthusiasticalli/.] Come on fishing. 

Ned 
[Snappilp.] No. It's too warm. 

Jack Hemingway 

[Resignedly/ y goiyig out right.'] You needn't 
take a fellow's head off. 

LORETTA 

I thought you wanted to go fishing. 

Ned 
Not with Jack. 

Loretta 
[Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.'] 
And you told me it wasn't warm at all. 

Ned 
[Speaking softly.] That isn't what I wanted 
to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] 
Dear Loretta — 

[Enter abruptly Alice Hemingway from 

right.] 
[Loretta sharply jerks her hand away, and 

looks put out.] 
[Ned tries not to look awkward.] 



A WICKED WOMAN 115 

Alice Hemingway 
Goodness ! I thought you'd both gone fishing ! 

LORETTA 

[Sweetly.] Is there anything you want, 
Alice? 

Ned 
[Trying to he courteous,] Anything I can 
do? 

Alice Hemingway 
[Speaking quickly y and trying to withdraw.] 
No, no. I only came to see if the mail had ar- 
rived. 

Loretta and Ned 
[Speaking together.] No, it hasn't arrived. 

Loretta 
[Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I 
am going to see. 

[Ned looks at her reproachfully.] 
[Loretta looks hack tantalisingly from door- 
way and disappears.] 
[Ned flings himself disgustedly into Morris 
chair.] 

Alice Hemingway 
[Moving over and standing in front of him. 



116 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Speaks accusingly.] What have you been say- 
ing to her? 

Ned 
[Disgruntled.] Nothing. 

Alice Hemingway 
[Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned. 

Ned 
[Earnestly.] On my word, Alice, I^ve been 
saying nothing to her. 

Alice Hemingway 
[With sudden change of front.] Then you 
ought to have been saying something to her. 

Ned 
[Irritably. Getting chair for her, seating her, 
and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I 
know your game. You invited me down here to 
make a fool of me. 

Alice Hemingway 
Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you down to 
meet a sweet and unsullied girl — the sweetest, 
most innocent and ingenuous girl in the world. 

Ned 
[Dryly.] That's what you said in your letter. 



A WICKED WOMAN 117 

Alice Hemingway 
And that's why you came. Jack had been 
trying for a year to get you to come. He did 
not know what kind of a letter to write. 

Ned 
If you think I came because of a line in a letter 
about a girl I'd never seen — 

Alice Hemingway 
[Mockingly.'] The poor, jaded, world-worn 
man, who is no longer interested in women 
. . . and girls! The poor, tired pessimist who 
has lost all faith in the goodness of women — 

Ned 
For which you are responsible. 

Alice Hemingway 
[Incredulously.'] I? 

Ned 
You are responsible. Why did you throw me 
over and marry Jack? 

Alice Hemingway 
Do you want to know? 

Ned 
Yes. 



118 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Alice Hemingway 
[Judiciously.^ First, because I did not love 
you. Second, because jou did not love me. 
[Bhe smiles at Ms protesting hand and at the 
protesting expression on his face.] And third, 
because there were just about twenty -seven other 
women at that time that you loved, or thought 
you loved. That is why I married Jack. And 
that is why you lost faith in the goodness of 
women. You have only yourself to blame. 

Ned 

[Admiringly. 1 You talk so convincingly. I 
almost believe you as I listen to you. And yet I 
know all the time that you are like all the rest 
of your sex — faithless, unveracious, and . . . 

[Ee glares at her^ hut does not proceed.] 

Alice Hemingway 
Go on. I'm not afraid. 

Ned 
[With finality.] And immoral. 

Alice Hemingway 
Oh! You wretch! 

Ned 
[Gloatingly.] That's right. Get angry. 



A WICKED WOMAN 119 

You may break the furniture if you wish. I 
don't mind. 

Alice Hemingway 
[With sudden change of front, softly. '\ And 
how about Loretta? 

[Ned gasps and remains silent. 1^ 

Alice Hemingway 
The depths of duplicity that must lurk under 
that sweet and innocent exterior . . . according 
to your philosophy! 

Ned 
[Earnestly.'] Loretta is an exception, I con- 
fess. She is all that you said in your letter. 
She is a little fairy, an angel. I never dreamed 
of anything like her. It is remarkable to find 
such a woman in this age. 

Alice Hemingway 
[Encouragingly.'] She is so naive. 

Ned 
[Taking the halt.] Yes, isn't she? Her face 
and her tongue betray all her secrets. 

Alice Hemingway 
[Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed it. 



120 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Ned 
[Delightedly.] Have you? 

Alice Hemingway 
She cannot conceal anything. Do you know 
that she loves you? 

Ned 
[Falling into the trap, eagerly.] Do you 
think so? 

Alice Hemingway 
[Laughing and rising.] And to think I once 
permitted you to make love to me for three 
weeks ! 

[Ned rises.] 

[Maid enters from left with letters, which 
she brings to Alice Hemingway.] 

Alice Hemingway 
[Running over letters.] None for you, Ned. 
[Selecting two letters for herself.] Tradesmen. 
[Handing remainder of letters to Maid.] And 
three for Loretta. [Speaking to Maid.] Put 
them on the table, Josie. 

[Maid puts letters on table to left front, and 
makes exit to left.] 



A WICKED WOMAN 121 

Ned 
[With shade of jealousy.] Loretta seems to 
have quite a correspondence. 

Alice Hemingway 
[With a sigh.] Yes, as I used to when I was a 
girl. 

Ned 
But hers are family letters. 

Alice Hemingway 
Yes, I did not notice any from Billy. 

Ned 
[Faintly.] Billy? 

Alice Hemingway 
[Nodding.] Of course she has told you about 
him? 

Ned 
[Gasping.] She has had lovers . . . already? 

Alice Hemingway 
And why not? She is nineteen. 

Ned 
[Haltingly.] This . . . er . . . this Billy . . . ? 



122 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Alice Hemingway 
[Laughing and putting her hand reassuringly 
on his arm.] Now don't be alarmed, poor, tired 
philosopher. She doesn't love Billy at all. 
[LORETTA enters from right.] 

Alice Hemingway 
[To LoRETTA, nodding toward table.] Three 
letters for you. 

LORETTA 

[Delightedly.] Oh! Thank you. 

[LoRETTA trips swiftly across to table y looks 
at letters^ sits down, opens letters, and 
begins to read.] 

Ned 
[Suspiciously.] But Billy? 

Alice Hemingway 
I am afraid he loves her very hard. That is 
why she is here. They had to send her away. 
Billy was* making life miserable for her. They 
were little children together — playmates. And 
Billy has been, well, importunate. And Loretta, 
poor child, does not know anything about mar- 
riage. That is all. 

Ned 
[Reassured.] Oh, I see. 



A WICKED WOMAN 123 

[Alice Hemingway starts slowly toward 
right exit, continuing conversation and 
accompanied hy Ned.] 

Alice Hemingway 
[Calling to Loretta.] Are you going fish- 
ing, Loretta? 

(Loretta looks up from letter and shakes 
head.] 

Alice Hemingway 
[To Ned.] Then you're not, I suppose. 

Ned 
No, it's too warm. 

Alice Hemingway 
Then I know the place for you. 

Ned 
Where? 

Alice Hemingway 
Right here. [Looks significantly in direction 
of Loretta.] Now is your opportunity to say 
what you ought to say. 

[Alice Hemingway laughs teasingly and 

goes out to right.] 
[Ned hesitates, starts to follow her, looks at 



124 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

LoRETTA, and stops. He twists his 
moustache and continues to look at her 
meditatively.] 
[LoRETTA is unaware of his presence and 
goes on reading. Finishes letter^ folds it, 
replaces in envelope^ looks up, and dis- 
covers Ned.] 

LORETTA 

[Startled.] Oh! I tliought you were gone. 

Ned 
[Walking across to her.] I thought I'd stay 
and finish our conversation. 

LORETTA 

[Willingly y settling herself to listen.] Yes, 
you were going to . . . [Drops eyes and ceases 
talking.] 

Ned 
[Taking her hand, tenderly.] I little dreamed 
when I came down here visiting that I was to 
meet my destiny in — [Abruptly releases 
Loretta's hand.] 

[Maid enters from left with tray.] 
[LoRETTA glances into tray and discovers 
that it is empty. She looks inquiringly at 
Maid.] 



A WICKED WOMAN 125 

Maid 
A gentleman to see you. He hasn't any card. 
He said for me to tell you that it was Billy. 

LORETTA 

[Starting y looking with dismay and appeal to 
Ned.] Oh! ... Ned! 

Ned 
[Gracefully and courteously, rising to his feet 
and preparing to go.] If you'll excuse me now, 
I'll wait till afterward to tell you what I wanted. 

Loretta 
[In dismay.] What shall I do? 

Ned 
[Pausing.] Don't you want to see him? 
[Loretta shakes her head.] Then don't. 

Loretta 

[Slowly.] I can't do that. We are old 

friends. We . . . were children together. [To 

the Maid.] Send him in. [To Ned, who has 

started to go out toward right.] Don't go, Ned. 

[Maid makes exit to left.] 

Ned 
[Hesitating a moment.] I'll come back. 
[Ned makes exit to right] 



126 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

[LoRETTA, left alone on stage^ shoivs per- 
turhation and dismay.] 

[Billy enters from left. Stands in doorway 
a fnoment. His shoes are dusty. He 
looks overheated. His eyes and face 
brighten at sight of Loretta.] 

Billy 
[Stepping forward^ ardently. ] Loretta ! 

Loretta 
[Not exactly enthusiastic in her reception, 
going slowly to meet him.] You never said you 
were coming. 

[Billy shows that he expects to kiss her, hut 
she merely shakes his hand.] 

Billy 
[Looking down at his very dusty shoes.] I 
walked from the station. 

Loretta 
If you had let me know, the carriage would 
have been sent for you. 

Billy 
[With expression of shrewdness.] If I had let 
you know, you wouldn't have let me come. 

[Billy looks around stage cautiously, then 
tries to kiss her.] 



A WICKED WOMAN 127 

LORETTA 

[Refusing to he kissed.] Won't you sit down? 

Billy 
[Coawingly,] Go on, just one. [Loretta 
shakes head and holds him off.] Why not? 
We're engaged. 

Loretta 
[With decision.] We're not. You know we're 
not. You know I broke it off the day before I 
came away. And . . . and . . . you'd better sit 
down. 

[Billy sits down on edge of chair. Loretta 
seats herself hy table. Billy^, without ris- 
ing , jerks his chair forward till they are 
facing each other, his knees touching hers. 
He yearns toward her. She moves hack 
her chair slightly.] 

Billy 
[With supreme confidence.] That's what I 
came to see you for — to get engaged over again. 
[Billy hiidges chair forward and tries to 

take her hand.] 
[Loretta hudges her chair hack.] 

Billy 
[Drawing out large silver watch and looking at 



128 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

it.] Now look here, Loretta, I haven't any time 
to lose. I've got to leave for that train in ten 
minutes. And I want you to set the day. 

LORETTA 

But we're not engaged, Billy. So there can't 
be any setting of the day. 

Billy 
[With confidence.] But we're going to be. 
[Suddenly breaking out.] Oh, Loretta, if you 
only knew how I've suffered. That first night I 
didn't sleep a wink. I haven't slept much ever 
since. [Hudges chair forward.] I walk the 
floor all night. [Solemnly.] Loretta, I don't 
eat enough to keep a canary bird alive. Lor- 
etta . . . [Hudges chair forward.] 

Loretta 
[Budging her chair hack maternally.] Billy, 
what you need is a tonic. Have you seen Doctor 
Haskins? 

Billy 
[Looking at watch and evincing signs of 
haste.] Loretta, when a girl kisses a man, it 
means she is going to marry him. 

Loretta 
I know it, Billy. But . . . [She glances 



A WICKED WOMAN 129 

toward letters on table.] Captain Kitt doesn't 
want me to marry you. He says . . . [She takes 
letter and begins to open it.] 

Billy 
Never mind what Captain Kitt says. He 
wants you to stay and be company for your sister. 
He doesn't want you to marry me because he 
knows she wants to keep you. 

LOEETTA 

Daisy doesn't want to keep me. She wants 
nothing but my own happiness. She says — 
[She takes second letter from table and begins to 
open it.] 

Billy 
Never mind what Daisy says — 

LORETTA 

[Taking third letter from table and beginning 
to open it.] And Martha says — 

Billy 
[Angrily.] Darn Martha and the whole boil- 
ing of them ! 

LORETTA 

[Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy! 



130 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Billy 
[Defensively.] Darn isn't swearing, and you 
know it isn't. 

[There is an awkward pause. Billy has lost 
the thread of the conversation and has 
vacant expression.] 

Billy 
[Suddenly recollecting.] Never mind Captain 
Kitt, and Daisy, and Martha, and what they 
want. The question is, what do you want? 

LORETTA 

[Appealingly.] Oh, Billy, I'm so unhappy. 
Billy 

[Ignoring the appeal and pressing home the 
point.] The thing is, do you want to marry me? 
[He looks at his watch.] Just answer that. 

LORETTA 

Aren't you afraid you'll miss that train? 

Billy 
Darn the train ! 

LORETTA 

[Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy! 

Billy 
[Most irascibly.] Darn isn't swearing. 



A WICKED WOMAN 131 

[Plaintively.] That's the way you always put 
me off. I didn't come all the way here for a 
train. I came for you. Now just answer me one 
thing. Do you want to marry me? 

LORETTA 

[Firmly. 1 No, I don't want to marry you. 

Billy 
[With assurance.] But you've got to, just the 
same. 

LORETTA 

[With defiance.] Got to? 

Billy 
[With unshaken assurance.] That's what I 
said — got to. And I'll see that you do. 

LORETTA 

[Blazing toith anger.] I am no longer a child. 
You can't bully me, Billy Marsh ! 

Billy 
[Coolly.] I'm not trying to bully you. I'm 
trying to save your reputation. 

LORETTA 

[Faintly.] Reputation? 
Billy 
[Nodding.] Yes, reputation. [He pauses for 



132 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

a moment, then speaks very solemnly.] Loretta, 
when a woman kisses a man, she's got to marry 
him. 

LORETTA 

[Appalled, faintly.] Got to? 

Billy 
[Dogmatically.] It is the custom. 

LORETTA 

[Brokenly.] And when ... a ... a woman 
kisses a man and doesn't . . . marry him . . .? 

Billy 
Then there is a scandal. That's where all the 
scandals you see in the papers come from. 
[Billy looks at watch.] 
[LoRETTA in silent despair.] 

LORETTA 

[In alasement.] You are a good man, Billy. 
[Billy shoics that he believes it.] And I am a 
very wicked woman. 

Billy 
No, you're not, Loretta. You just didn't know. 

LORETTA 

[With a gleam of hope.] But you kissed me 
first. 



A WICKED WOMAN 133 

Billy 
It doesn't matter. You let me kiss you. 

LORETTA 

[Hope dying down.] But not at first. 

Billy 
But you did afterward and that's what counts. 
You let me kiss you in the grape-arbor. You let 
me — 

LORETTA 

[With anguish.] Don't! Don't! 

Billy 
[Relentlessly.] — kiss you when you were 
playing the piano. You let me kiss you that day 
of the picnic. And I can't remember all the 
times you let me kiss you good night. 

LORETTA 

[Beginning to weep.] Not more than five. 

Billy 
[With conviction.] Eight at least. 

LORETTA 

[Reproachfully y still weeping.] You told me 
it was all right. 



134 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Billy 

[Emphatically.] So it was all right — until 
you said jou wouldn't marry me after all. Then 
it was a scandal — only no one knows it yet. If 
you marry me no one ever will know it. [Looks 
at watch.] I've got to go. [Stands up.] 
Where's my hat? 

LORETTA 

[Sobbing.] This is awful. 

Billy 
[Approvingly.] You bet it's awful. And 
there's only one way out. [Looks anxiously 
about for hat.] What do you say? 

LORETTA 

[Brokenly.] I must think. I'll write to you. 
[Faintly.] The train? You're hat's in the hall. 

Billy 
[Looks at watch, hastily tries to kiss her, suc- 
ceeds only in shaking hand, starts across stage 
toward left.] All right. You write to me. 
Write to-morrow. [Stops for a moment in door- 
way and speaks very solemnly.] Eemember, 
Loretta, there must be no scandal. 
[Billy goes out.] 



A WICKED WOMAN 135 

[LoRETTA sits in chair quietly weeping. 
Slowly dries eyes, rises from chair, and 
stands, undecided as to what she will do 
next. 

[Ned enters from right, peeping. Discovers 
that LoRETTA is alone, and comes quietly 
across stage to her. When Ned comes up 
to her she begins tveeping again and tries 
to turn her head away. Ned catches both 
her hands in his and compels her to look 
at him. She weeps harder.] 

Ned 
[Putting one arm protectingly around her 
shoulder and dratving her toward him.] There, 
there, little one, don't cry. 

LORETTA 

[Turning her face to his shoulder like a tired 
child, sobbing. 1 Oh, Ned, if you only knew how 
wicked I am. 

Ned 
[Smiling indulgently.] What is the matter, 
little one? Has your dearly beloved sister failed 
to write to you? [Loretta shakes head.] Has 
Hemingway been bullying you? [Loretta 
shakes head.] Then it must have been that caller 



136 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

of yours? [Long pause, during which Loretta's 
weeping grows more violent.] Tell me what's 
the matter, and we'll see what I can do. [He 
lightly kisses her hair — so lightly that she does 
not know. 

LORETTA 

[Sobbing.] I can't. You will despise me. 
Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed. 

Ned 
[Laughing incredulously.] Let us forget all 
about it. I want to tell you something that may 
make me very happy. My fondest hope is that 
it will make you happy, too. Loretta, I love 
you — 

Loretta 
[Uttering a sharp cry of delight, then moan- 
ing.] Too late! 

Ned 
[Surprised.] Too late? 

Loretta 
[Still moaning.] Oh, why did I? [Ned 
somewhat stiffens.] I was so young. I did not 
know the world then. 



A WICKED WOMAN 137 

Ned 
What is it all about anyway? 

LORETTA 

Oh, I . . . he . . . Billy ... I am a wicked 
woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me 
again. 

Ned 

This . . . er . . . this Billy ^ what has he 
been doing? 

LORETTA 

I ... he ... I didn't know. I was so young. 
I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad, I shall 
go mad ! 

[Ned^s encircling arm goes limp. He gently 
disengages her and deposits her in hig 
chair.] 
[LoRETTA buries her face and sobs afresh.] 

Ned 
[Twisting moustache fiercely , regarding her 
dubiously, hesitating a moment, then drawing up 
chair and sitting down.] I ... I do not under- 
stand. 

LORETTA 

[W ailing.] I am so unhappy! 



138 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Ned 
[Inquisitorially.] Why unhappy? 

LORETTA 

Because ... he ... he wants to marry me. 

Ned 
[His face brightening instantly, leaning for- 
ward and laying a hand soothingly on hers.] 
That should not make any girl unhappy. Be- 
cause you don't love him is no reason — 
[Abruptly breaking off.] Of course you don't 
love him? [Loretta shakes her head and shoul- 
ders vigorously.] What? 

Loretta 
[Explosively.] No, I don't love Billy! I 
don't want to love Billy! 

Ned 
[With confidence.] Because you don't love 
him is no reason that you should be unhappy just 
because he has proposed to you. 

Loretta 
[Sobbing.] That's the trouble: I wish I did 
love him. Oh, I wish I were dead. 

Ned 
[Growing complacent.] Now my dear child, 



A WICKED WOMAN 139 

you are worrying yourself over trifles. [His sec- 
ond hand joins the first in holding her hands.] 
Women do it every day. Because you have 
changed your mind, or did not know your mind, 
because you have — to use an unnecessarily harsh 
word — jilted a man — 

LORETTA 

[Interrupting, raising her head and looking at 
him.] Jilted? Oh, Ned, if that were all ! 

Ned 
[Hollow voice.] All ! 

[Ned^s hands slowly retreat from hers. He 
opens his mouth as though to speak fur- 
ther, then changes his mind and remains 
silent. 

LORETTA 

[Protestingly.] But I don't want to marry 
him! 

Ned 
Then I shouldn't. 

LORETTA 

But I ought to marry him. 

Ned 
Ought to marry him? [Loretta nods.] That 
is a strong word. 



140 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

LORETTA 

[Nodding.] I know it is. [Her lips are 
tremhling, hut she strives for control and man- 
ages to speak more calmly.] I am a wicked 
woman. A terrible wicked woman. No one 
knows how wicked I am . . . except Billy. 

Ned 
[Starting, looking at her queerly.] He . . . 
Billy knows? [Loretta nods. He debates with 
himself a moment.] Tell me about it. You 
must tell me all of it. 

Loretta 
[Faintly, as though about to weep again.] All 

of it? 

Ned 

[Firmly.] Yes, all of it. 

Loretta 
[Haltingly.] And . . . will . . . you . . . ever 
. . . forgive . . . me? 

Ned 
[Drawing a long breath, desperately.] Yes, 
I'll forgive you. Go ahead. 

Loretta 
There was no one to tell me. We were with 



A WICKED WOMAN 141 

each other so much. I did not know anything of 
the world . . . then. [Pauses.] 

Ned 
[Impatiently.] Go on. 

LORETTA 

If I had only known. [Pauses.] 

Ned 
[Biting his lip and clenching his hands.] Yes, 
yes. Go on. 

LORETTA 

We were together almost every evening. 

Ned 
[Savagely.] Billy? 

LORETTA 

Yes, of course, Billy. We were with each other 
so much. ... If I had only known. . . . There 
was no one to tell me ... I was so young . . . 
[Breaks down crying.] 

Ned 
[Leaping to his feet, explosively.] The scoun- 
drel! 

LORETTA 

[Lifting her head.] Billy is not a scoundrel 
... He ... he ... is a good man. 



142 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Ned 
[Sarcastically. ] I suppose you'll be telling me 
next that it was all your fault. [Loretta nodsJ] 
What! 

Loretta 
[Steadily,^ It was all my fault. I should 
never have let him. I was to blame. 

Ned 
{Paces up and down for a minute, stops in 
front of her, and speaks with resignation.] All 
right. I don't blame you in the least, Loretta. 
And you have been very honest. It is . . . 
er . . . commendable. But Billy is right, and 
you are wrong. You must get married. 

Loretta 
[In dim, far-away voice.] To Billy? 

Ned 
Yes, to Billy. I'll see to it. Where does he 
live? I'll make him. If he won't Til . . . I'll 
shoot him ! 

Loretta 
[Crying out with alarm.] Oh, Ned, you won't 
do that? 



A WICKED WOMAN 143 

Ned 
[Sternly.] I shall. 

LORETTA 

But I don't want to marry Billy. 

Ned 
[Sternly.] You must. And Billy must. Do 
you understand? It is the only thing. 

LORETTA 

That^s what Billy said. 

Ned 
[Triumphantly.] You see, I am right. 

LORETTA 

And if ... if I don't marry him . . . there 
will be . . . scandal? 

Ned 
[Calmly.] Yes, there will be scandal. 

Loretta 
That's what Billy said. Oh, I am so unhappy ! 
[Loretta breaks down into violent weeping.] 
[Ned paces grimly up and down, now and 
again fiercely twisting his moustache.] 

Loretta 
[Face huried, sobbing and crying all the time.] 



144 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

I don't want to leave Daisy! I don't want to 
leave Daisy! What shall I do? What shall I 
do? How was I to know? He didn't tell me. 
Nobody else ever kissed me. [Ned stops curi- 
ously to listen. As he listens his face brightens,] 
I never dreamed a kiss could be so terrible . . . 
until . . . until he told me. He only told me 
this morning. 

Ned 

[Ahruptli/.] Is that what you are crying 
about? 

LORETTA 

[Reluctantly.] N-no. 

Ned 
[In hopeless voice, the brightness gone out of 
his face, about to begin pacing again.] Then 
what are you crying about? 

LORETTA 

Because you said I had to marry Billy. I 
don't want to marry Billy. I don't want to leave 
Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I 
were dead. 

Ned 

[Nerving himself for another effort.] Now 
look here, Loretta, be sensible. What is this 



A WICKED WOMAN 145 

about kisses? You haven't told me everything 
after all. 

LORETTA 

I ... I don't want to tell you everything. 

Ned 
[Imperatively.] You must. 

LORETTA 

[Surrendering.] Well, then . . . must I? 

Ned 
You must. 

LORETTA 

[Floundering.] He ... I ... we ... I let 
him, and he kissed me. 

Ned 
[Desperately y controlling himself.] Go on. 

LORETTA 

He says eight, but I can't think of more than 
five times. 

Ned 
Yes, go on. 

LORETTA 

That's all. 



146 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Ned 
[With vast incredulity.] All? 

LOEETTA 

[Puzzled.] All? 

Ned 
[Awkwardly.] I mean . . . er . . . nothing 
worse? 

LORETTA 

[Puzzled.] Worse? As though there could 
be. Billy said — 

Ned 
[Interrupting.] When? 

Loretta 

This afternoon. Just now. Billy said that 
my . . . our . . . our . . . our kisses were ter- 
rible if we didn't get married. 

Ned 
What else did he say? 

Loretta 

He said that when a woman permitted a man 

to kiss her she always married him. That it was 

awful if she didn't. It was the custom, he said ; 

and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and it has 



A WICKED WOMAN 147 

broken my heart. I shall never be happy again. 
I know I am terrible, but I can't help it. I must 
have been born wicked. 

Ned 
[Absent-mindedly bringing out a cigarette and 
striking a match.] Do you mind if I smoke? 
[Coming to himself again, and flinging away 
match and cigarette.] I beg your pardon. I 
don't want to smoke. I didn't mean that at all. 
What I mean is . . . [He bends over Loretta^ 
catches her hands in his, then sits on arm of chair, 
softly puts one arm around her, and is about to 
kiss her.] 

LORETTA 

[With horror, repulsing him.] No! No! 

Ned 
[Surprised.] What's the matter? 

LORETTA 

[Agitatedly.] Would you make me a wickeder 
woman than I am? 

Ned 
A kiss? 

LORETTA 

There will be another scandal. That would 
make two scandals. 



148 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Ned 
To kiss the woman I love ... a scandal? 

LORETTA 

Billj loves me, and he said so. 

Ned 
Billy is a joker ... or else he is as innocent 
as you. 

LORETTA 

But you said so yourself. 

Ned 
[Taken aback.] I? 

Loretta 
Yes, you said it yourself, with your own 
lips, not ten minutes ago. I shall never believe 
you again. 

Ned 
[Masterfully putting arm around her and 
drawing her toward him.] And I am a joker, 
too, and a very wicked man. Nevertheless, you 
must trust me. There will be nothing wrong. 

Loretta 
[Preparing to yield.] And no . . . scandal? 



A WICKED WOMAN 149 

Ned 
Scandal fiddlesticks. Loretta, I want you to 
be my wife. [He waits anxiously.] 

[Jack Hemingway^ in fishing costume^ ap- 
pears in doorway to right and looks on.] 

Ned 
You might say something. 

Loretta 
I will . . . if . . . 

[Alice Hemingway appears in doorway to 
left and looks on.] 

Ned 
[In suspense.] Yes, go on. 

Loretta 
If I don't have to marry Billy. 

Ned 
[Almost shouting.] You can't marry both 
of us! 

Loretta 
[Sadly y repulsing him with her hands.] Then, 
Ned, I cannot marry you. 

Ned 
[Dumbfounded.] W-what? 



150 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

LOEETTA 

[Sadly.] Because I can't marry both of you. 

Ned 
Bosh and nonsense ! 

LORETTA 

I'd like to marry you, but . . . 

Ned 
There is nothing to prevent you. 

LORETTA 

[With sad conviction.] Oh, yes, there is. 
You said yourself that I had to marry Billy. 
You said you would s-s-shoot him if he didn't. 

Ned 
[Drawing her toward him.] Nevertheless . . w 

LORETTA 

[Slightly holding him off.] And it isn't the 
custom . . . what . . . Billy said. 

Ned 
No, it isn't the custom. Now, Loretta, will you 
marry me? 

Loretta 
[Pouting demurely.] Don't be angry with me, 



A WICKED WOMAN 151 

Ned. [He gathers her into his arms and kisses 
her. She partially frees herself, gasping,] I 
wish it were the custom, because now I^d have to 
marry you, Ned, wouldn't I? 

[Ned and Loretta kiss a second time and 

profoundly.] 
[Jack Hemingway chuckles.] 
[Ned and Loretta, startled, but still in each 
other^s arms, look around. Ned looks 
sillily at Alice Hemingway. Loretta 
looks at Jack Hemingway.] 

Loretta 
I don't care. 



curtain 



THE BIRTH MARK 

Sketch by Jack London 

written for 

Robert and Julia Fitzsimmons 



THE BIRTH MARK 

Scene — One of the club rooms of the West Bay 
Athletic Club, Near centre front is a large 
table covered with newspapers and magazines, 
At left a punching-bag apparatus. At right, 
against wall, a desk, on which rests a desk- 
telephone. Door at rear toward left. On 
walls are framed pictures of pugilists, con- 
spicuously among which is one of Robert Fitz- 
simmons. Appropriate furnishings, etc., such 
as foils, clubs, dumb-bells and trophies. 

[Enter Maud Sylvester.] 

[She is dressed as a man, in evening clothes, pre- 
ferably a Tuxedo. In her hand is a card, and 
under her arm a paper-wrapped parcel. She 
peeps about curiously and advances to table. 
She is timorous and excited, elated and at the 
same time frightened. Her eyes are dancing 
with excitement.] 

Maud 
[Pausi7ig by table.] Not a soul saw me. I 
wonder where everybody is. And that big 

155 



156 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

brother of mine said I could not get in. [She 
reads hack of card.] " Here is my card, Maudie. 
If you can use it, go ahead. But you will never 
get inside the door. I consider my bet as good 
as won." [Looking up, triumphantly.'] You do, 
do you? Oh, if you could see your little sister 
now. Here she is, inside. [Pauses, and looks 
about.] So this is the West Bay Athletic Club. 
No women allowed. Well, here I am, if I don't 
look like one. [Stretches out one leg and then 
the other, and looks at them. Leaving card and 
parcel on table, she struts around like a man, 
looks at pictures of pugilists on walls, reading 
aloud their names and making appropriate re- 
marks. But she stops before the portrait of 
Fitzsimmons and reads aloud.] "Robert Fitz- 
simmons, the greatest warrior of them all." 
[Clasps hands, and looking up at portrait mur- 
murs.] Oh, you dear! 

[Continues strutting around, imitating what 
she considers are a man's stride and swagger, re- 
turns to table and proceeds to unwrap parcel.] 
Well, I'll go out like a girl, if I did come in like 
a man. [Drops wrapping paper on table and 
holds up a woman's long automobile cloak and 
a motor bonnet. Is suddenly startled by sound 
of approaching footsteps and glances in a fright- 



THE BIRTH MARK 157 

ened way toward door.] Mercy! Here comes 
somebody now! [Glances about her in alarm, 
drops cloak and bonnet on floor close to table, 
seizes a handful of newspapers, and runs to large 
leather chair to right of table, where she seats 
herself hurriedly. One paper she holds up before 
her, hiding her face as she pretends to read. Un- 
fortunately the paper is upside down. The other 
papers lie on her lap.] 

[Enter Robert Fitzsimmons.] 

[Ee looks about, advances to table, takes out 
cigarette case and is about to select one, when 
he notices motor cloak and bonnet on floor. 
He lays cigarette case on table and picks them 
up. They strike him as profoundly curious 
things to be in a club room. He looks at Maud^ 
then sees card on table. He picks it up and 
reads it to himself, then looks at her with com- 
prehension. Hidden by her newspaper, she 
sees nothing. He look at card again and reads 
and speaks in an aside.] 

Fitzsimmons 

" Maudie. John H. Sylvester." That must be 

Jack Sylvester's sister Maud. [Fitzsimmons 

shows by his expression that he is going to play 

a joke. Tossing cloak and bonnet under the 



158 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

table he places card in his vest pocket , selects a 
chair, sits down, and looks at Maud. He notes 
paper is upside down, is hugely tickled, and 
laughs siletitly.] Hello! [Newspaper is agi- 
tated by slight tremor. He speaks more loudly.] 
Hello! [Newspaper shakes badly. He speaks 
very loudly.] Hello! 

Maud 
[Peeping at him over top of paper and speak- 
ing hesitatingly.] H-h-hello! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Gruffly.] You are a queer one, reading a 
paper upside down. 

Maud 
[Lowering newspaper and trying to appear at 
ease.] It's quite a trick, isn't it? I often prac- 
tice it. I'm real clever at it, you know. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Grunts, then adds.] Seems to me I have seen 
you before. 

Maud 
[Glancing quickly from his face to portrait and 
back again.] Yes, and I know you — You are 
Robert Fitzsimmons. 



THE BIRTH MARK 159 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I thought I knew you. 

Maud 
Yes, it was out in San Francisco. Mj people 
still live there. I'm just, ahem, doing New York. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

But I don't quite remember the name. 

Maud 
Jones — Harry Jones. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Hugely delighted, leaping from chair and 
striding over to her. Sure. [Slaps her resound- 
ingly on shoulder.] 

[She is nearly crushed by the weight of the 
blow, and at the same time shocked. She 
scrambles to her feet.] 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Glad to see you, Harry. [He wrings her hand 
so that it hurts.] Glad to see you again, Harry. 
[He continues wringing her hand and pumping 
her arm.] 

Maud 

[Struggling to withdraw her hand and finally 
succeeding.. Her voice is rather faint.] Ye-es, 



160 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

er . . . Bob . . . er . . . glad to see you again. 
[She looks ruefully at her bruised fingers and 
sinks into chair. Then, recollecting her part, she 
crosses her legs in a mannish way.] 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Crossing to desk at right, against which he 
leans, facing her.] You were a wild young ras- 
cal in those San Francisco days. [Chuckling.] 
Lord, Lord, how it all comes back to me. 

Maud 
[Boastfully. ] I was wild — some, 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Grinning.] I should say! Remember that 
night I put you to bed? 

Maud 
[Forgetting herself, indignantly.] Sir! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You were . . .er . . . drunk. 

Maud 
I never was! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Surely you haven't forgotten that night! 
You began with dropping champagne bottles out 



THE BIRTH MARK 161 

of the club windows on the heads of the people 
on the sidewalk, and you wound up by assaulting 
a cabman. And let me tell you I saved you from 
a good licking right there, and squared it with the 
police. Don't you remember? 

Maud 
[Nodding hesitatingly.] Yes, it is beginning 
to come back to me. I was a bit tight that night. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

{Exultantly.] A bit tight! Why, before I 
could get you to bed you insisted on telling me 
the story of your life. 

Maud 
Did I? I don't remember that. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I should say not. You were past remembering 
anything by that time. You had your arms 
around my neck — 

Maud 
[Interrupting,] Oh! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

And you kept repeating over and over, " Bob, 
dear Bob." 



162 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Maud 
[Sprmging to her feet] Oh! I never did! 
[Recollecting herself.] Perhaps I must have. I 
was a trifle wild in those days, I admit. But I'm 
wise now. I've sowed my wild oats and steadied 
down. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I'm glad to hear that, Harry. You were tear- 
ing off a pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, 
in which Maud nods.] Still punch the bag? 

Maud 
[In quick alarm, glancing at punching hag.] 
No, I've got out of the hang of it. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Reproachfully.] You haven't forgotten that 
right-and-left, arm-elbow and shoulder movement 
I taught you? 

Maud 
[With hesitation.] N — o — o. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Moving toward hag to left] Then, come on. 

Maud 

[Rising reluctantly and following.] I'd 
rather see you punch the bag. I'd just love to. 



THE BIRTH MARK 163 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I will, afterward. You go to it first. 

Maud 
[Eyeing the hag in alarm. ] No ; you. I'm out 
of practice. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Looking at her sharply.] How many drinks 
have you had to-night? 

Maud 
Not a one. I don't drink — that is, er, only 
occasionally. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Indicating hag.] Then go to it. 
Maud 

No ; I tell you I am out of practice. I've for- 
gotten it all. You see, I made a discovery. 
[Pauses.] 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Yes? 

Maud 
I — I — you remember what a light voice I al- 
ways had — almost soprano? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Nods.] Well, I discovered it was a perfect 



164 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

falsetto. I've been practising it ever since. Ex- 
perts, in another room, would swear it was a 
woman's voice. So would you, if you turned 
your back and I sang. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Who has been laughing increduously , now he- 
comes suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you 
are an imposter. You are not Harry Jones at 
all. 

Maud 
I am, too. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I don't believe it. He was heavier than you. 

Maud 
I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of 
weight. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You are the Harry Jones that got soused and 
had to be put to bed? 

Maud 
Y — e — s. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

There is one thing I remember very distinctly. 



THE BIRTH MARK 165 

Harry Jones had a birth mark on his knee. [He 
looks at her legs searchingly.] 

Maud 
[Emharrassedy then resolving to carry it out."] 
Yes, right here. [/Sf/ie advances right leg and 
touches it.'\ 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Triumphantly.^ Wrong. It was the other 
knee. 

Maud 
I ought to know. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You haven't any birth mark at all. 

Maud 
I have, too. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Suddenly springing to her and attempting to 
seize her leg,] Then we'll prove it. Let me see. 

Maud 
[In a panic hacks away from him and resists 
his attempts, until grinning in an aside to the 
audience, he gives over. She, in an aside to audi- 
ence.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth mark. 



166 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Bullying. Then take a go at the bag. [She 
shakes her head.] You're not Harry Jones. 

Maud 
[Approaching punching hag.] I am, too. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Then hit it. 

Maud 

[Resolving to attempt it, hits hag several nice 
hlowSj and then is struck on the nose hy it.] Oh ! 

[Recovering herself and riibhing her nose.] I 
told you I was out of practice. You punch the 
bag, Bob. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I will, if you will show me what you can do 
with that wonderful soprano voice of yours. 

Maud 
I don't dare. Everybody would think there 
was a woman in the club. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Shaking his head.] No, they won't. They've 
all gone to the fight. There's not a soul in the 
building. 



THE BIRTH MARK 167 

Maud 
[Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not — a — soul 
— in — the building? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Not a soul. Only you and I. 

Maud 
[Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I 
must go. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

What's your hurry? Sing. 

Maud 
[Turning hack with new resolve.] Let me see 
you punch the bag, — er — Bob. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You sing first. 

Maud 
No; you punch first. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I don't believe you are Harry 

Maud 
[Hastily.] All right, I'll sing. You sit down 
over there and turn your back. 
[FiTZSIMMONS obeys.] 



168 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

[Maud walks over to the table toward right. 
She is about to sing, when she notices 
FiTZSiMMONS^s cigarette case, picks it up, 
and in an aside reads his name on it 
and speaks.] 

Maud 
^^ Robert Fitzsimmons." That will prove to 
my brother that I have been here. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Hurry up. 

[Maud hastily puts cigarette case in her 
pocket and begins to sing.] 

SONG 

[During the song Fitzsimmons turns his 
head slowly and looks at her with growing 
admiration.] 

Maud 
How did you like it? 

Fitzsimmons 
[ Gruffly. ] Rotten. Anybody could tell it was 
a boy's voice — 

Maud 
Oh! 



THE BIRTH MARK 169 

FiTZSIMMONS 

It is rough and coarse and it cracked on every 
high note. 

Maud 

Oh! Oh! 

[Recollecting herself and shrugging her shoul- 
ders.] Oh, very well. Now let's see if you can 
do any better with the bag. 

[FiTZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhi- 
bition.] 

[Maud looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.] 

Maud 

[As he finishes.] Beautiful ! Beautiful ! 

[As he puts on coat and goes over and sits 
down near table.] Nothing like the bag to lim- 
ber one up. I feel like a fighting cock. Harry, 
let's go out on a toot, you and I. 

Maud 
Wh — a — a— -t? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

A toot. You know — one of those rip-snort- 
ing nights you used to make. 

Maud 
[Emphatically^ as she picks up newspapers 



170 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

from leather chair, sits down, and places them on 
her lap.] I'll do nothing of the sort. IVe — 
I've reformed. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You used to joy-ride like the very devil. 

Maud 
I know it. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

And you always had a pretty girl or two along. 

Maud 
[Boastfully, in mannish fashion.] Oh, I still 
have my fling. Do you know any — well, — er, 
— nice girls? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Sure. 

Maud 
Put me wise. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Sure. You know Jack Sylvester? 

Maud 
[Forgetting herself. ] He's my brother — 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Exploding.] What! 



THE BIRTH MARK 171 

Maud 
— In-law's first cousin. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Oh! 

Maud 
So you see I don't know liim very well. I only 
met him once — at the club. We had a drink to- 
gether. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Then you don't know his sister? 

Maud 
[Starting.] His sister? I — I didn't know 
he had a sister. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Enthusiastically.] She's a peach. A queen. 
A little bit of all right. A — a loo-loo. 

Maud 
[Flattered.] She is, is she? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

She's a scream. You ought to get acquainted 
with her. 

Maud 
[Slyly.] You know her, then? 



172 THE HUMAN DKIFT 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You bet. 

Maud 
[Aside.] Oh, ho! [To Fitzsimmons.] Know 
her very well? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I've taken her out more times than I can re- 
member. You'll like her, I'm sure. 

Maud 
Thanks. Tell me some more about her. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

She dresses a bit loud. But you won't mind 
that. And whatever you do, don't take her to eat. 

Maud 
[Hiding her chagrin.] Why not? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I never saw such an appetite — 

Maud 
Oh! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

It's fair sickening. She must have a tape- 
worm. And she thinks she can sing. 



THE BIRTH MARK 173 

Maud 
Yes? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Rotten. You can do better yourself, and that's 
not saying much. She's a nice girl, really she is, 
but she is the black sheep of the family. Funny, 
isn't it? 

Maud 

[Weak voice.] Yes, funny. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Her brother Jack is all right. But he can't do 
anything with her. She's a — a — 

Maud 
[Grimly.] Yes. Go on. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

A holy terror. She ought to be in a reform 
school. 

Maud 

[Springing to her feet and slamming news- 
papers in his face.] Oh! Oh! Oh! You liar! 
She isn't anything of the sort ! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Recovering from the onslaught and making 
helieve he is angry, advancing threateningly on 



174 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

her.] Now I'm going to put a head on you. You 
young hoodlum. 

Maud 
[All alarm and contrition, hacking away from 
him.] Don't! Please don't! I'm sorry! I apol- 
ogise. I — I beg your pardon, Bob. Only I 
don't like to hear girls talked about that way, 
even — even if it is true. And you ought to 
know. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Subsiding and resuming seat.] You've 
changed a lot, I must say. 



Maud 
[Sitting down in leather chair.] I told you 
I'd reformed. Let us talk about something else. 
Why is it girls like prize fighters? I should 
think — ahem — I mean it seems to me that girls 
would think prize fighters horrid. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

They are men. 

Maud 
But there is so much crookedness in the game. 
One hears about it all the time. 



THE BIRTH MARK 175 

FiTZSIMMONS 

There are crooked men in every business and 
profession. The best fighters are not crooked. 

Maud 
I — er — I thought they all faked fights when 
there was enough in it. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Not the best ones. 

Maud 
Did you — er — ever fake a fight? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[LooJdng at her sharply ^ then speaking 
solemnly. 1 Yes. Once. 

Maud 
[Shocked^ speaking sadly.] And I always 
heard of you and thought of you as the one clean 
champion who never faked. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Gently and seriously.] Let me tell you about 
it. It was down in Australia. I had just begun 
to fight my way up. It was with old Bill Hobart 
out at Rushcutters Bay. I threw the fight to 
him. 



176 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Maud 
[Repelled^ disgusted.] Oh! I could not have 
believed it of you. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Let me tell you about it. Bill was an old 
fighter. Not an old man, you know, but he'd 
been in the fighting game a long time. He was 
about thirty-eight and a gamer man never entered 
the ring. But he was in hard luck. Younger 
fighters were coming up, and he was being 
crowded out. At that time it wasn't often he got 
a fight and the purses were small. Besides it was 
a drought year in Australia. You don't know 
what that means. It means that the rangers are 
starved. It means that, the sheep are starved 
and die by the millions. It means that there is 
no money and no work, and that the men and 
women and kiddies starve. 

Bill Hobart had a missus and three kids and at 
the time of his fight with me they were all starv- 
ing. They did not have enough to eat. Do you 
understand? They did not have enough to eat. 
And Bill did not have enough to eat. He trained 
on an empty stomach, which is no way to train 
you'll admit. During that drought year there 
was little enough money in the ring, but he had 



THE BIRTH MARK 177 

failed to get any fights. He had worked at long- 
shoring, ditch-digging, coal-shovelling — any- 
thing, to keep the life in the missus and the kid- 
dies. The trouble was the jobs didn't hold out. 
And there he was, matched to fight with me, be- 
hind in his rent, a tough old chopping-block, but 
weak from lack of food. If he did not win the 
fight, the landlord was going to put them into the 
street. 

Maud 
But why would you want to fight with him in 
such weak condition? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I did not know. I did not learn till at the 
ringside just before the fight. It was in the 
dressing rooms, waiting our turn to go on. Bill 
came out of his room, ready for the ring. " Bill," 
I said — in fun, you know. " Bill, I've got to do 
you to-night." He said nothing, but he looked at 
me with the saddest and most pitiful face I have 
ever seen. He went back into his dressing room 
and sat down. 

" Poor Bill ! " one of my seconds said. " He's 
been fair starving these last weeks. And I've 
got it straight, the landlord chucks him out if he 
loses to-night." 



178 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Then the call came and we went into the ring. 
Bill was desperate. He fought like a tiger, a 
madman. He was fair crazy. He was fighting 
for more than I was fighting for. I was a rising 
fighter, and I was fighting for the money and the 
recognition. But Bill was fighting for life — for 
the life of his loved ones. 

Well, condition told. The strength went out 
of him, and I was fresh as a daisy. " What's 
the matter. Bill?" I said to him in a clinch. 
" You're weak." " I ain't had a bit to eat this 
day," he answered. That was all. 

By the seventh round he was about all in, hang- 
ing on and panting and sobbing for breath in the 
clinches, and I knew I could put him out any 
time. I drew my right for the short arm jab 
that would do the business. He knew it was 
coming, and he was powerless to prevent it. 
" For the love of God, Bob," he said ; and — 
[Pause,] 

Maud 
Yes? Yes? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I held back the blow. We were in a clinch. 
" For the love of God, Bob," he said again, " the 
missus and the kiddies ! " 



THE BIRTH MARK 179 

And right there I saw and knew it all. I saw 
the hungry children asleep, and the missus sitting 
up and waiting for Bill to come home, waiting 
to know whether they were to have food to eat or 
be thrown out in the street. 

" Bill," I said, in the next clinch, so low only 
he could hear. " Bill, remember the La Blanche 
swing. Give it to me, hard.'' 

We broke away, and he was tottering and 
groggy. He staggered away and started to whirl 
the swing. I saw it coming. I made believe I 
didn't and started after him in a rush. Biff! 
It caught me on the jaw, and I went down. I 
was young and strong. I could eat punishment. 
I could have got up the first second. But I lay 
there and let them count me out. And making 
believe I was still dazed, I let them carry me to 
my corner and work to bring me to. [Pause.] 
Well, I faked that fight. 

Maud 
[Springing to him and shaking his hand.] 
Thank God ! Oh ! You are a man ! A — a — a 
hero! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Dryly y feeling in his pocket.] Let's have a 
smoke. [He fails to find cigarette case.] 



180 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

Maud 
I can't tell you how glad I am you told me that. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Gruffly.] Forget it. [He looks on tableland 
fails to find cigarette case. Looks at her sus- 
piciousli/y then crosses to desk at right and 
reaches for telephone.] 

Maud 
[Curiously.] What are you going to do? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Call the police. 

Maud 
What for? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

For you. 

Maud 
For me? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You are not Harry Jones. And not only are 
you an imposter, but you are a thief. 

Maud 
[Indignantly.] How dare you? 



THE BIETH MARK 181 

FiTZSIMMONS 

You have stolen my cigarette case. 

Maud 
[Remembering and taken ahacky pulls out 
cigarette case.] Here it is. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

Too late. It won't save you. This club must 
be kept respectable. Thieves cannot be tolerated. 

Maud 
[Growing alarm.] But you won't have me ar- 
rested? 

FiTZSIMMONS 

I certainly will. 

Maud 
[Pleadingly.] Please! Please! 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Obdurately.] I see no reason why I should 
not. 

Maud 
[Hurriedly y in a panic] I'll give you a rea- 
son — a — a good one. I — I — am not Harry 
Jones. 



182 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Grimly.] A good reason in itself to call in 
the police. 

Maud 

That isn't the reason. I'm — a — Oh ! I'm so 
ashamed. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Sternly.] I should say you ought to be. 
[Reaches for telephone receiver.] 

Maud 
[In rush of desperation.] Stop! I'm a — 
I'm a — a girl. There! [Sinks down in chair, 
burying her face in her hands.] 

[FiTZSIMMONS hanging up receiver, grunts.] 
[Maud removes hands and looks at him in- 
dignantly. As she speaks her indignation 
grows.] 

Maud 
I only wanted your cigarette case to prove to 
my brother that I had been here. I — I'm Maud 
Sylvester, and you never took me out once. And 
I'm not a black sheep. And I don't dress loudly, 
and I haven't a — a tapeworm. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Grinning and pulling out card from vest 



THE BIRTH MARK 183 

pocket.] I knew you were Miss Sylvester all the 
time. 

Maud 
Oh! You brute! I'll never speak to you 
again. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Gently.] You'll let me see you safely out of 
here. 

Maud 
[Relenting.] Ye-e-s. [She rises ^ crosses to 
table, and is about to stoop for motor cloak and 
bonnet, but he forestalls her, holds cloak and 
helps her into it.] Thank you. [She takes off 
wig, fluffs her oicn hair becomingly , and puts on 
bonnet, looking every inch a pretty young girl, 
ready for an automobile ride.] 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Who, all the time, watching her transforma- 
tion, has been growing bashful, now handing her 
the cigarette case.] Here's the cigarette case. 
You may k — k — keep it. 

Maud 
[Looking at him, hesitates, then takes it.] I 
thank you — er — Bob. I shall treasure it all 



184 THE HUMAN DRIFT 

my life. [He is very embarrassed. 1 Why, I do 
believe you're bashful. What is the matter. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

[Stammering. 1 Why — I — you — You are 
a girl — and — a — a — deuced pretty one. 

Maud 
[Taking his arm, ready to start for door."] 
But you knew it all along. 

FiTZSIMMONS 

But it's somehow different now when you've 
got your girl's clothes on. 

Maud 
But you weren't a bit bashful — or nice, when 
— you — you — [Blurting it out.^ Were so 
anxious about birth marks 
[They start to make exit.] 



CUETAIN 



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unusual originality and interest." — San Francisco Bul- 
letin. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



JACK LONDON'S WRITINGS 

The Little Lady of the Big House 

Price $i.SO 

In this story of a woman whose Ufe is shaped by 
a great love, Mr. London adds at least three charac- 
ters to his already notable list of literary portraits — 
Dick Forrest, master of broad acres, a man of intel- 
lect, training, and wealth ; Paula, his wife, young, 
attractive, bound up in her husband and his affairs ; 
and Evan Graham, traveled, of easy manners and in- 
gratiating personality, a sort of Prince Charming. 
The problem comes with Graham's entrance into 
the Forrest family circle and it is a problem that 
must be solved. 

The Star Rover 

JACK LONDON'S MOST DARING NOVEL 

Cloth, frontispiece in colors, i2mo, $1.50 

" But the artistic triumph of ' The Star Rover ' is 
in its new use of the reincarnation idea. It is upon 
this that the author has lavished his best work, car- 
rying it through with a skill and plausibility that win 
the reader. Jack London has done something origi- 
nal in ' The Star Rover ' and done it supremely well." 
— New York Times. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



JACK LONDON'S WRITINGS 

THE SCARLET PLAGUE Decorated cloth, ilhtstrated I2mo,%i.oo 

The relapse of civilization into barbarism is a theme which, as those fa- 
miliar with Mr. London's style will at once see, is admirably suited to his 
powers as a novelist. 

" Mr. London has never done a truer or more consistent piece of imag- 
inative work." — The Outlook. 

THE MUTINY OF THE ELSINORE 

Decorated cloth, illustrated, i2mo, $1.35 
Mr. Lorvdon is here writing of scenes and types of people with which he 
is very familiar, the sea and ships and sailors. In addition to the adventure 
element, of which there is an abundance of a most satisfying kind, there is a 
thread of romance involving a wealthy young man who takes the trip on the 
Elsinore and the captain's daugher. 

" Strong characterizations and a splendid picture of indomitable sailing- 
masters." — Spring/ield Republican, 

THE STRENGTH OF THE STRONG 

Decorated cloth, frontispiece, $1.25 
" The Strength of the Strong " is a collection of short stories containing 
some of Jack London's best work. Besides the title piece there are six tales: 
South of the Slot, The Unparalleled Invasion, The Enemy of all the World, 
The Dream of Debs, The Sea Farmer, and Samuel. They are representative 
London stories — his most mature and interesting work — startlingly original 
as to theme and masterly as to treatment. 

ADVENTURE 

Decorated cloth, illustrated, $i.jo; Fiction Library, $0.J0 
A thrilling absorbing tale of rapid and exciting plot, with lots of excite- 
ment, no little humor and considerable sentiment. It is written with a sure 
and ready hand, and is altogether a remarkable piece of imaginative writing. 

BURNING DAYLIGHT Decorated cloth, illustrated, i2mo, $z.so 

Fiction Library Edition, $0.30 

" A gripping story of Millions and a Maid." — IVew York Herald, 
THE VALLEY OF THE MOON 

Decorated cloth, frontispiece in colors, $1.^0 

" The most wholesome, the most interesting, the most acceptable book 
that Mr. London has written."— The Dial, 

" Read * The Valley of the Moon.' Once begin it and you can't let it 
alone until you have finished it. . . . ' The Valley of the Moon ' is that kind 
of a book." — Pittsburgh Post. 

MARTIN EDEN Cloth, i2mo,%i. 50 

" The story possesses substance, form, vigor, and vitality as does every- 
thing that Mr. London writes. It is filled with the wine of life, with a life 
that Mr. London has himself lived, and to which he never wearies of giving 
every part of himself." — Boston Eveni7ig Transcript. 

THE HOUSE OF PRIDE Decorated cloth, illustrated, i2mo, $1.20 

Honolulu, Molokai, the Lepers' Island, and others of the Hawaiian 
group afford splendid setting for the tales. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



JACK LONDON'S WRITINGS 

WHEN GOD LAUGHS Decorated cloth, i2mo, illustrated, $1.50 

It is doubtful if anything will ever be written that will do as much toward 
making known and felt the awful process of destruction resulting from child- 
labor as will this one comparatively brief sketch. 

THE CRUISE OF THE SNARK 

Decorated cloth, illustrated, Svo, $2.00 
An exhilarating story of one of the most adventurous voyages ever 
planned — the passage of the Snark around the world. 

THE CALL OF THE WILD 

Decorated cloth, illustrated in colors, $i.j:o 

" A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the construction ; 

a wonderfully perfect bit of work; a book that will be heard of long. The 

dog's adventures are as exciting as any man's exploits could be, and Mr. 

London's workmanship is wholly satisfying." — The New York Sztn. 

THE SEA-WOLF Decorated cloth, illustrated in colors, $1.50 

"Jack London's 'The Sea-Wolf is marvelously truthful. . . „ Read- 
ing it through at a sitting, we have found it poignantly interesting; ... a 
superb piece of craftsmanship." — The New York Tribune. 

WHITE FANG Decorated cloth, illustrated in colors, $1.50 

" A thrilling story of adventure , . . stirring indeed . . . and it touches 
a chord of tenderness that is all too rare in Mr. London's work." — Record- 
Herald, Chicago. 

BEFORE ADAM Decorated cloth, illustrated in colors, $1.50 

" The marvel of it is not in the story itself, but in the audacity of the 
man who undertook such a task as the writing of it. . . . From an artistic 
standpoint the book is an undoubted success. And it is no less a success 
from the standpoint of the reader w'no seeks to be entertained." — The Plain 
Dealer, Cleveland. 

THE IRON HEEL Decorated cloth, $1.50 

" Power is certainly the keynote of this book. Every word tingles with 

it. It is a great book, one that deserves to be read and pondered. ... It 

contains a mighty lesson and a most impressive warning." — Indianapolis 

News. 

REVOLUTION Cloth, i2mo, $1.50; Standard Library Edition, $0.30 
" Here is a field wherein London is entirely at home, and the narrative 
radiates with picturesque description and vivid characterization." — Brook- 
lyn Daily Eagle. 

THE WAR OF THE CLASSES 

Cloth, i2nio. $i.jo; Standard Library Edition, $0.J0 
" Mr. London's book is thoroughly interesting, and Mr. London's point 
of view is, as may be surmised, very different from that of the closet the- 
orist." — Springfield Republican. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



JACK LONDON'S WRITINGS 

PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS Uoi/i, illustrated, $1.30 

"This life has been pictured many times before — complacently and 
soothingly by Professor Walter A. Wyckoff, luridly by Mr. Stead, scientific- 
ally by Mr. Charles Booth. But Mr. London alone has made it real and 
present to us." — The Independent. 

THE ROAD Cloth, 127710, illustrated, $2.00 

A literal record of life am.ong tramps, of travel from end to end of the 
country. 

JACK LONDON'S SHORT STORIES 

THE GAME Each, cloth, i2tno, illustrated, $r.jo 

A Transcript from Real Life. 

" It is told with such a glow of imaginative illusion, with such intense 
dramatic vigor, with such effective audacity of phrase, that it almost seems 
as if the author's appeal was to the bodily eye as much as to the inner men- 
tality, and that the events are actually happening before the reader." — I^ew 
York Herald. 

CHILDREN OF THE FROST 

" Told with something of that same vigorous and honest manliness and 
indifference with which Mr. Kipling makes unbegging yet direct and unfail- 
ing appeal to the sympathy of his reader." — Richmo7id Despatch. 

THE FAITH OF MEN 

" Mr. London's art as a story-teller nowhere manifests more strongly 
than in the swift, dramatic close of his stories. There is no hesitancy or un- 
certainty of touch. From the start the story moves straight to the inevitable 
conclusion." — Courier-Journal. 

MOON FACE 

" Each of the stories is unique in its individual way, weird and uncanny, 
and told in Mr. London's vigorous, compelling style." — htterior. 

TALES OF THE FISH PATROL 

" That they are vividly told, hardly need be said, for Jack London is a 
realist as well as a writer of thrilling romances." — Clevelatid Plai7i Dealer. 

LOVE OF LIFE 

" Jack London is at his best with the short story . . . clear-cut, sharp, 
incisive with the tang of the frost in it." — Record-Herald, Chicago. 

LOST FACE 

The stories are strong and robust and the characterizations are not fanci- 
ful creations, but the actual happenings of an existence which the author has 
lived and now vividly describes. 
SOUTH SEA TALES Decorated cloth, i2mo, illustrated, $1.23 

Jack London's stories of the South Seas have a sense of reality about 
them which prove that he has been on the ground and has himself taken part 
in the combats, physical and mental, which he describes. 

PLAYS BY JACK LONDON 

THEFT $1.25 I SCORN OF WOMEN $1.25 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



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